In ancient times, when Greek gods ruled Olympus and unrestrained violence was commonplace, there was a god named Kratos. Known for his unwavering ferocity, he was feared even by his divine peers. But tragedy and remorse darkened his existence.

Kratos' story is a journey of redemption. It begins when he is tricked by Ares, the god of war, into killing his own wife and daughter. Haunted by nightmares and the weight of his sin, Kratos seeks to break free from the bonds of his past and put an end to his life of senseless destruction.

He leaves ancient Greece and arrives in the lands of the Norse gods in the company of his son, Atreus. Together, they carry his wife's ashes to the top of a mountain, following her final wish. This journey is the starting point of an epic odyssey filled with dangers, discoveries, and transformation.

The relationship between Kratos and Atreus is at the heart of the story. Kratos, a father tormented by his past and his inability to show affection, struggles to guide his son in a world teeming with mythological creatures and divine beings. Atreus, curious and eager to learn about his divine heritage, seeks his father's approval.

As they progress, they face monumental challenges, such as clashes with the Norse gods, including Thor and Baldur, as well as the consequences of Kratos' actions in the past. Each battle and encounter pushes them to grow and learn, both as individuals and in their father-son relationship.

Kratos'

Ethan and Jaime sat at the bar, sipping whiskey as the bartender poured for another patron. The wooden floor creaked as newcomers came in, their stirrups clinking as they walked.

Ethan sipped his drink. It was harsh but the warmth went through him and his head was feeling a little lighter. “You think we’re clear?” He looked down at the colt revolver on his girlfriend’s hip.

“I don’t think we’re ever gonna be clear again,” she said in her breathy voice. It always turned Ethan on a little. Especially when she was angry. “What with the law after us, as well as Harry and the rest of the gang.”

“What about once we’re over the border?” Though they were speaking quietly, there weren’t many other patrons in the bar. Ethan was worried their voices might carry.

“You heard what happened to Butch and Sundance, right?” Jaime asked.

“Who didn’t?” Ethan took a bigger swig from his whiskey. “It was in all the papers.”

“Honey, we’re gonna be watchin’ our backs for the rest of our lives.” Ethan loved the way her long black hair looked beneath her beige cowboy hat in the dim light of the saloon. He loved her brown eyes and the freckles on her face. She was cute but dangerous. Everything Ethan loved. Wrapped up in one perfect woman.

“I’ll watch your backside any time, babes.”

She rolled her eyes and chuckled. “You’re an asshole.”

“So what’d we do it for then?” Ethan asked as he looked into his mostly full glass.

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean I thought the plan was leave Harry and the rest, run to the border, and we’re finally free.” He took two big swigs from his whiskey. “If we’re not free, then what’s the point?”

She shrugged and took a drink. “Nothing better to do I guess. We can survive another day. Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Ethan repeated. He chugged the rest of his drink and put down some coins for another.

Jaime was an Indian. From the Dakota Territory, a Souix. Her parents had been murdered in front of her when she was a kid, and she was picked up by some soldiers and taken South. She performed in Wild West shows and was raped repeatedly, and ended up turning to working in brothels. One day she’d decided she’d had enough and turned to robbing banks. That’s when Harry found her and brought her into the gang. Ethan saw her and the rest was history. Jaime was the fastest draw Ethan had ever seen. Plus she was strong as anyone and smart, and of course beautiful. She was twenty now, but old and hardened beyond her years.

The saloon doors swung open and in walked a tall man dressed in all black with an eyepatch and a short, stout fellow with a brown vest and hat. The tall man’s hat was black with a band of silver skulls and he had two shiny silver Smith and Wesson revolvers on his hips. As his one mean eye scoured the barroom, Ethan tried to think of what to say to his brother, Harry Delahay, the leader of the Deep Gorge Gang.

Harry and his lackey, Baldface Joe approached Ethan and Jaime and Ethan wasn’t sure who drew first but he drew both of his guns, pointing one at Harry’s head and one at Joe’s head. When all was said and done, Harry had one gun pointed at Ethan’s face and one at Jaime’s, Jaime’s gun was pointed at Joe, and Joe’s gun was pointed at Jaime. Everyone else in the barroom cleared out quickly except the bartender Fred, who was ducking behind the bar.

Joe laughed. “We’ll lookie here! We got ourselves a Canadian sit down.”

“Mexican standoff, dumbass,” Jaime muttered.

“Nobody’s asking’ you, Indjun,” Joe blurted. He’d always been a rebel bigot. Ethan had always hated that about him.

Harry smiled, looking at Ethan with his mean eye. “There’s no reason for things to get bloody here, folks. We’re all family here, right? Let’s all put our guns down and talk this out.”

“Not a chance,” Ethan said. “We put our guns down and you’ll kill us.”

Harry grinned. “We’re brothers.”

“That’s why I know you so well,” Ethan said.

“I been lookin’ after you our whole lives,” Harry said. “You think I’d kill ya now?”

“You’d kill her,” Ethan said, nodding to Jaime. “And I can’t let you do that.”

Harry was right. Their family was from Kentucky. They were bourbon distillers. They’d grown up together in the Appalachians. When they were old enough, Harry joined Morgan’s Raiders in the Confederate Army and Ethan soon followed. They weren’t much for the cause, but they loved blowing up union railroad bridges and stealing supplies. On many occasions, Harry saved Ethan’s life. His older brother had always looked out for him. It was an easy transition to go from raiders to bank robbers. After spending some time in a union prison, of course.

“I can’t believe you’d betray me like this,” Harry said. “After everything I’ve done for you.”

Ethan looked down the barrel of his gun as he aimed at Harry and Joe. He glanced at Jaime out of the corner of his eye. She was steady as ever. They were all experienced gunmen. Nobody would be making a mistake. It was all about looking for that opening.

“Everything you’ve done for him?” Jaime asked Harry. “How bout you? After everything you’ve been through together you wouldn’t let him leave the gang. How bout that?”

Harry chuckled as he continued aiming his pistols. “And he’d leave us for a two timing slutty cunt like you. I can’t be lettin you all leave and go blabbin the location of our hideout to the sheriff once you get picked up.”

“We ain’t gonna get picked up,” Jaime said.

“Ain’t you heard what happened to Butch and Sundance?” Joe asked.

“That was in South America, you idiot,” Jaime said.

“Ain’t that where you’re goin?” Joe asked.

“No,” Jaime said. “We’re goin to Mexico.”

“Same difference,” Joe said.

“Why don’t you just put your guns down and let us go?” Ethan asked. “How’s this worth killin or gettin killed over? Just let us go.”

“I already said we can’t do that,” Harry said. “But Ethan, you can leave this whore and just come back with us. It’ll be like old times.”

Ethan smiled and shook his head. “You know that ain’t happenin. And call her a whore again, I’ll shoot you out of principle. I don’t care what else happens.”

Joe, who was pointing his gun at Jaime’s head smiled. “We’ll I’d blow her pretty brains out for one.”

“I just call em like I sees em.” Harry said. “She’s a fuckin whore. And go ahead and shoot me. You’d be doin me a favor.” Harry was crazy and suicidal. He always had a death wish. That’s what made him such a great outlaw. And that’s what made him so scary and dangerous.

Ethan looked from gun to gun, going through all the scenarios. If he shot Harry and Joe, he had a slight chance of getting them both. But the more likely scenario was he’d kill one and the other would kill Jaime, leaving him alone to take out whoever was left. But if Jaime was dead, this would all be for nothing. He pictured her pretty head exploding in a red spray and shook off the thought.

“Well somebody’s gotta do somethin,” Jaime said. “We can’t just stand here pointin our guns at each other indefinitely. Somebody’s gonna have to pee eventually.”

“Shut up, cunt,” Joe said.

Jaime started making pissing sounds. “Pss. Pss.”

“I said shut up,” Joe said.

Jaime chuckled. “Baldface Joe. You do have to piss, don’t you? Go ahead. Piss yourself like the coward you are.”

Joe gritted his teeth. “I’m about to kill you, hooker.”

“You do, I’ll splatter your brains on the wall,” Ethan said.

Jaime laughed. “Ain’t much there. Wouldn’t be too much cleanup involved.”

“Oh fuck you,” Joe said. “You always thought you was so smart. But tell me this. If you’re so smart, how’d you end up here with two guns pointed at your head?” She was staring down Harry’s and Joe’s barrels.

“We’ll you’re right about one thing, Jaime,” Harry said. “This ain’t gettin us nowhere. Somebody’s gonna have to do somethin.”

Ethan knew his best chance was to fire both guns, killing Harry and Joe simultaneously. But he had to be perfect. If he missed, or hit one and not the other, or if he wasn’t quite fast enough, Jaime was dead and this was all for nothing. Maybe he could shout “Duck!” and Jaime would duck, then he could shoot Harry and Joe. But what if she didn’t duck? They’d likely both end up dead.

Harry smiled at him. “Come on little brother. Drop this bitch.”

Ethan considered it for a split second. That would definitely be his best chance of getting out of this alive. But who’s to say Harry wouldn’t kill him later? How could Harry ever trust him after this? And either way, Ethan loved Jaime. There was no way he could leave her. There was no way he could let her die like that. If he had to choose between Jaime and his brother, he’d choose her every time.

The saloon doors flapped open and in walked the sheriff and his deputy. Both immediately drew their revolvers. Everyone was distracted and Ethan fired both pistols. Harry’s and Joe’s heads jerked back and blood and brains flew everywhere.

The sheriff and the deputy fired. Jaime fell and several glasses shattered. On her way down, Jaime shot the sheriff in the head. Ethan fired his pistol at the deputy, hitting him in the chest. The deputy dropped his gun and took a few steps back. Ethan fired twice, hitting him in the face each time and sending the deputy sprawling into the floor.

Ethan rushed to Jaime, who was picking herself up from the floor. “You okay?” Ethan asked. “You hit?”

She shook her head. “Sheriff hit the stool next to me and it hit me and I lost my balance.”

“Thank God.” Ethan said.

Jaime smiled. “Since when did you believe in God?”

Ethan smiled back. “Since one of his angels fell down from Heaven and agreed to flee to Mexico with me.”

She laughed and shook her head. “You cheesy asshole. Really, go fuck yourself with that ridiculous line.”

“I’d rather be fuckin you,” he said.

The two of them stood. Fred the bartender also stood. “Am I okay?”

Jaime grinned. “Yeah, you’re okay.” She tossed him some coins. “Pour yourself a drink.”

He nodded and poured some whiskey in a glass and chugged it.

“Well let’s git outta here,” Ethan said. He looked down at his dead brother and frowned. It was a shame it had to end this way. “And let’s not stop in any more saloons til we’re in Mexico.”

“Agreed,” Jaime said as she put her arm around him and they walked towards the swinging doors.

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.

There is a sin

coming up second

to rape

and sitting right above

murder

and it’s the cardinal sin

of being boring.

There is no shortage

of boring damned people,

an extreme surplus of them.

They have been ruining

the world

and collapsing civilizations

since their have been civilizations

worth collapsing.

Interesting men

have always gone to war

to run their bayonets through

other interesting men

because of the needs of

boring men to feel

adequate

to grab at other

sources of power due to

their lack of being something on

their own.

Boring men

destroy interesting women

so a man with more

doesn’t steal them away

and leave him with

his dick in his his hand

and boring women

erode interesting men

from the inside

because when they

fell

In love with him for his

ways

They didn’t expect it

to be so hard to

outshine him

so they decide he

is an oppressor

and start to sharpen the

guillotine slat.

Boring people wage

terrorism

on the others of us

every day with their woes

and their boring cancerous

conversation and it chews

at the rest of our contentment

with living.

We see their rules

and their governments

and their sycophantic societies

and we decide we’d rather

be somewhere else

because if they are right

it’s too much to bear

being wrong.

So we grab

interesting tools

built by interesting

gunsmiths

and we cross the

crevasse

of fear and unknowing

and make an interesting scene

for someone else

to find

and wonder:

’How could someone do

something like that?

What a coward.

Was he sick?

Look at these scribblings

on every surface

and all those books!

He must have been sick!

Yes. He surely was.

My goodness.

Goodness me.

Anyway,

I have to get this over with.

The game is on at 7.

We (they) are playing the

(Whatever’s).’

cardinal sin numero dos.

The palms

Of gray clouds

Pushing against

My cedar lined chest

Calming the better

Parts of who I am

Tuna casserole

And good coffee

For breakfast

It truly is

The little things

That keep me

From destroying

What I believe

I think

I have become

No thanks

To you

David Burdett

6/27/2023

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

Hope your week has started off metal as possible, or classical as possible, or new wave as possible, or... Look, I couldn't think of a way to start off this post to introduce a 41-second poem on the channel. But we thought it would be cool to change it up once in awhile. Plus, I got this badass new webcam I wanted to test drive. Anyway, here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYvN5aQGHWw

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Let my masterpiece

Be the one

That pulls me

Into the ground

Let it be

The one I take

To the grave

David Burdett

6/25/2023

Hard Times

Grief is like snow

Changing things, but

Not for ever they say.

But I say it’s the thaw,

When the black

Of winter, lies as far

As the eye can see

yet stirring beneath

new growth, a pain

worse than death.

© Bernard Pearson

A magic mirror

only exists in fairytales,

but here

there’s no

wisdom hidden

within the glass;

Yet I still stare at it

waiting

for something

amazing to reveal itself,

but the person

glaring back at me

is just as fucked up,

just as scared,

and is entirely confused

about the future

as I am.

I say,

fuck that guy.

He’s no help to me either.

I stepped into the shade

To speak to the sun

He asked, where is my shadow

I said I had none

Reaching forward behind myself

There was a pile of sleeves

Draped over my shoulders

Were buttons sprouting leaves

Things had become not what they seem

Realizations that it’s all

incongruous

This all proved one thing

The fabric of reality was

diaphanous

Stepping back into the sun

I laughed with my shadow

We climbed back inside

And closed my mind’s window