We are all statues, figurines beaten and broken and worn.

We start off tall and confident and perfect.

Then storms and winds bear down on us.

Acid falls from the clouds in rain and withers us away.

Our beauty is lost.

Eyes are no longer fixated upon us.

Yet when it comes to this, there is a special elegance to be found.

The broken statue is the one that possesses a simple magnificence.

To tell you this tale, I'll be quite bold: otherwise you'll hear it, but your mind won't be sold. This is the story perhaps of a great, great mind ; his vices a plenty, typically of chest and behind. Oh it is true many times it was asked," Which head are you thinking with?" As he rose to make crash. He spoketh as loudly as possible for his creation ,"Hear ye, hear ye, I make proclamation! I declareth my arousal, for all things fine and fair, allow me to make acquaintance with but my one eye's stare!" Ah yes, he was penis and he was a boisterous sort, flexing more often than not to show that he was a true sport. "I'm the true north, would you not agree? M'lady that's why they call me compass (Cum Pass) try me and see!" A filthy rascal he is chasing ideas of a physical property, it's the only way he can show love he doesn't wish to be obscene! He even sits on a throne, surely he's a king! He could summon forth an army if he heard his muse (s) or siren(s) sing. The epic tale aside he's generally a good fellow, he doesn't get out of line except if you mean by rehearsing lines of Othello. He means no one any harm, even though he plays rough, he's kind of an odd man out, as his thought process is but simple : rush! He might even think himself a sword that's been sheathed, so full of himself to get full on another these are the things he thinks! This has been but a playful banter ; a body parts dilemma, ready to pounce as a pants panther!

When she's not cranking out gut-wrenching lines that are dripping with emotion and wisdom well beyond her years, Samantha Fain is "the girl that sells overpriced popcorn and soda" at a small theater in Connersville, Indiana.

We are pleased to feature her in this week's Proser Showcase.

Known here as @paintingskies, "Sam" has a stylistic voice that is as pronounced as it is profound.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

S: As a child, I'd always been into writing silly poems and (frankly terrible) song lyrics, but I didn't really get super interested in writing until about four years ago.

Due to some personal issues, writing became my outlet. I started off on an app where my love for reading and writing grew daily. The community was (and still is) so welcoming, and I made so many lifelong (although far-away) friends that inspired me to continue writing and helped me stay strong. I couldn't be here without them (you know who you are: thank you).

Now, writing is my passion. It's as necessary as breathing.

P: Briefly discuss the value that reading adds to both your personal and professional life.

S: Reading helps me get through the day, and reading everyone's posts on networks like Prose. really helps me. It's nice to know I'm not the only one with baggage.

P: How would you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

S: I wouldn't call what I write "literary ventures". That makes me sound like

I'm a professional, when I'm really just a seventeen year-old streaming-Netflix-and-eating-poptarts-on-the-couch kind of girl.

Right now, I'd describe my writing as introspective and schizophrenic, but it's basically just my stream of consciousness. I write how I feel and think.

You'll definitely be seeing more from me, but I have no idea what I'll be working on in the future.

P: What does Prose. mean to you?

S: [It] means the world to me. I've encountered so much support and love from everyone here. Prose. is practically synonymous to a friend.

P: Where else can we find you and your writing?

S: As with Prose., you can find loads of my new and older pieces on Opuss, @paintingskies. You can also find me on Twitter at @slf97 and Instagram at @sammyleelee.

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This #FridayFeature blog series is designed to help you get to know your fellow community members better. Would you like to nominate someone for interview? Have a question you’re dying to ask of someone on the platform? Send us a private message here or visit our contact page to get in touch: theprose.com/p/contact.

I hold stones in my hands and lucidly wonder where to cast them, knowing that the direction I throw them in could effect every known dimension, and every world within them, and every known period in time for good or for bad.

I'm standing in a darkened room with seemingly no end in any direction, little dots of light, some bigger, some smaller, scattered everywhere; some small spheres floated and spun around an invisible orbit. It wasn't until I had dropped a stone by accident and heard what seemed like thousands of screams echoing inside my mind when that stone crushed one of the small floating spheres, that I realized that I was looking at the universe in miniature size, as if I was monstrously large, even larger than that of stars. And I realized that the stones that I held were Death, and that I was the Reaper, the Harvester of Worlds. With horror the stones slipped from my hand, crushing stars and worlds, even universes, and in the end causing a chain reaction that made the room explode with light, and then go completely dark.

- Michael Hall

I fell in love

with a writer,

And every time he wrote—

I could feel the pain

In his words

that he used

to so perfectly describe.

It was almost

As if

He had given me

A key

To the inner fortress

Of his mind.

It gave me a

certain respect,

And love for him

And his character.

The pain

That he had endured

And the life

He worked so hard for.

I wished

That I could

Kiss away the pain

within his past,

Write him a new story

He hadn't yet thought of or seen,

With fields of green

Flowers of yellow

And all his days

Without tears of blue

Or bruises of black.