Dear Prosers

Oh, how I hate to say goodbye even though I know it is only for a little time.

I've come to a new season in my life and I will be taking a little break from Prose, I will continue my writing and will come back to post it soon.

I wish you all well and hope you all continue to grow in your writing and grow into who you are. love yall. happy writing.

love, Jenevieve

p.s if your into watching vlogs on youtube ill have one coming in about a year(theofficalJenevieve) if all goes well!

A young man in a suit slowly drew his bow over the strings on his violin. The notes hung in the air and seemed to sparkle. The rest of the orchestra drew their last notes also. The cellow bellowed it’s final note softly, leaving a small group surrounding them in awe.

The director gathered the orchestra into a group, they whispered and nodded. As soon as everyone took their places, the director started swinging his hands, motioning for the wind instrument players to begin.

The men and even a woman brought their flutes and clarinets to their lips and began playing an upbeat, swinging tune. The trumpet players positioned themselves and began some steady notes, giving the music some solidity to the swirling of the wind players.

The young man who was playing the violin, brought it up and poised his bow, waiting for the director’s motion to begin. His foot tapped along with the beat and his bow never slowed. The music swept around and around, keeping the listeners entertained.

They ended the music with a few short, quick notes and lowered their instruments, breathless. The crowd clapped and danced excitedly, the music had sparked new energy in everyone’s spirit that evening.

As the orchestra took a moment to rest, the violinist adjusted his tuning on the violin. His blue eyes darted around, watching the people moving aboard the ship. The sky was slowly starting to fade to black. He held the violin up and tested his tuning, satisfied, he set it down and waited for the other members to finish their tuning.

Small children milled around the orchestra members. The violinsit smiled at a darling little girl, her bright yellow curls bounced as she danced in a circle. Silence ensued everyone as they sat on the deck. Suddenly, a hard bump jostled the whole ship. Everyone gasped and steadied themselves.

“We’ve hit an iceberg!” A faint cry sounded from further away.

Some women gasped and grabbed their suitor’s arms and mothers grabbed their children’s hands. A man from the crowd walked out and shouted. “No worries, folks! This ship is unsinkable! Nothing to worry about.” His voice was filled with confidence. “Orchestra, would you please play something upbeat for us?” He waved at the director.

The orchestra members stood. The same violinst stood and poised his bow over the violin. The director started the stringed players section, the violinist moved his bow back and forth, his foot keeping time. The night sky had now come, stars shining brightly.

About 20 minutes later, near the middle of the song, a panicked shout sounded from somewhere. “The ship has sprung a leak!! We’re all gonna die! The ship is going to sink!” Screams sounded as the people were sent into a panic.

The violinst’s hands started to shake, but he kept playing. It was his duty to help keep the spirits up in the midst of this trouble. He swallowed hard, nearly choking on the fear building into his chest. The orchestra had vowed earlier that night, no matter what happened, they would keep playing.

People swarmed everywhere, women screamed for their children. Lifeboats were starting to get lowered. The music ended for a split second before shifting to a more calm, soothing song. The stars twinkled innocently in the sky above. Panicked screams sounded from people all around. Footsteps bounded across the deck. The orchestra kept playing, despite the chaos. The ship seemed to slowly lower into the icy ocean. The violinist blinked back tears, he focused on playing.

“Women and children on the lifeboats!” A male voice shouted into the darkness. Women and children scurried to the lifeboats, they were packed with people. Everyone was going crazy.

The orchestra had finished six songs, or so, as the last lifeboat lowered. The ship started to move vertically, throwing everyone off balance. The orchestra moved to playing the song, “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” The violinist drew his notes softly on the violin. The ship started to go more vertical, causing people to fall into the dark, icy waters. The orchestra members fell, one by one. Only two were left, the violinist, who now found a stable place to stand, and a flute player, who stood next to him. They slowly drew the last notes of the song, “Nearer, my God, to Thee”. The ship suddenly snapped, the one half sunk rapidly and was sucked into the waters. The other half also started sinking. The violinist let his tears fall freely. Icy water soon reached his neck, he drew in a deep breath and held it as the water filled in over his head.

His eyes stung in the icy waters, he pushed as hard as he could with his legs to reach the surface. The water pulled him further down, he pushed harder against the swirling water that pulled dozens of other people down. He somehow managed to make it out of the swirling water, his whole body numb, and his lungs ready to burst, he finally broke through the surface.

His teeth chattered uncontrollably as he was treading water to stay afloat. The man’s lips had turned slightly blue. His teeth knocked against one another as he could no longer feel any part of his body. Thoughts flew to his mind: thoughts of the tight hugs he gave before leaving his beloved wife, thoughts of the tears they shed, thoughts of how his parents begged him to stay. The frigid water lapped against his body, he fought harder to stay afloat as his arms and legs grew stiff. One last thought tormented him, an image of his new wife, now heartbroken, lost, and grieved by the loss of her husband. His extremeties could no longer move, and his body slipped into the dark, frigid ocean depths.

***

I’m not sure exactly how accurate I got this historically, so if any of you readers notice a mistake in it, please tell me and I can fix it. :) Hope you all enjoy it!

The village of Pogorevolo was never one to boast about its pride and cultural heritage. Located 340 miles away from the capital city of Moscow, the neglected land in the middle of nowhere had a single piece of infrastructure left untouched- A country home, built sometime near the beginning of the twentieth century. It was a house abandoned by the family after their husband’s demise- the place never accommodated another sign of human life. Later, in the 1970s, an artist bought the house purely out of love for art, or so everyone thought. Nobody ever knew his name; Nobody ever knew how he looked; Nobody even knew if it was him or her; people just assumed. And in a rugged, neglected, little village down in the middle of nowhere, it never mattered.

The young guard, well-built and in his twenties, paced across the grim hallway of the godforsaken building. He had urgent news to pass- one that no one craved to hear. After all, no one ever yearns to uncover the five orange pips in their letterbox. They would rather be pleased to hear from an old friend or a family member, who they never knew existed. But today was not one among those days where a certain someone could sip their hot coffee, watching the rain pattering against the windows so strong as if the droplets desired to come indoors. Neither were the past few weeks.

The young man, after a momentary pause for reflection, shouldered open the wooden doors. The fire blazed steadily in the hearth, its eventual crackling giving away its existence. The man, who they were all sworn to protect, remained motionless, staring away into the distant grey woods. General Samuel Stern was one of the most high-ranking officials in the Scotland Army. His excellent records and ground-breaking achievements often bestowed him as the definition of a perfect soldier- one willing to lay down his life for the country. But little did anyone know that General Stern also commanded the Brotherhood of Tradesmen, the looming threat that the government could never cleanse out of their radars. All until the end of October.

Secret societies and fraternities that prevailed throughout history did so because of their one, most powerful equipment in their inventory- their secrecy. The principle was so simple- As long as no one ever knew of their existence, they could never be shoved away into extinction. And the Brotherhood of Tradesmen survived, over the many decades that transformed the world in ways no one ever imagined, due to the very reason. They were invisible, and yet, they were everywhere. They were Gods. So when a gentleman labelled Edward McKenzie began unearthing their wrongdoings, one by one, slowly threatening to bring them to light, they had no other choice but to pluck him away from the game of life. Survival at all costs. But this minor death lost them a bit too much than they expected.

Even before the young man could address the reason behind him gasping for air, General Stern offered him a question, eliminating the need for a mundane introduction, “Is it David?” The guard, though initially surprised, gradually realised that it was not that difficult a riddle to be solved. And a simple nod was enough for the high-ranked, stained officer to confirm his obvious suspicion. He rose from the antique chair, ready to face the young man, who was trying to procure the rest of the speech that he had to convey, “Sir, we need to transfer you to someplace safe.”

The General smirked at the comment, “Safe? And where must be that,” He reached for the ID of the young guard, squinting his eyes to conceal his definite requirement of glasses, “Jeffrey?” But before the guard could explain their elaborate plan of escape, Stern had proceeded to the other end of the room, uninterested. He faced the bookshelves accommodating the numerous titles, ones he was familiar with in his past. Though Jeffrey’s words echoed within the aesthetic chamber, none of them succeeded to disrupt Stern in the least.

“Have you met him? David.” General Stern interrupted Jeffrey from further elaborating his excellent escaping endeavour. Already discouraged, the young man felt even more inferior to realise that Stern had no reluctance to let him realise that his words were worthless. “Yes, sir. Once.” His reply was quick and sharp- the precise mode of communication between a senior official and an inexperienced soldier. Stern discerned the uneasiness he had given the young man by not listening to a single syllable that he spoke- words not being valued or heard. It is always hurtful, whether it be an unstable relationship or an immature teenager, not that he cared about it.

“And you still believe that you can prevent him? Apprehend him?” The General’s words laced with scorn and a concealed sadness over an eventual fate were beyond anything that the young man could find a response. Jeffrey lowered his head in silence- he could pitch an entire spreadsheet of reasons and possibilities, but he knew, inside his heart, that no words or speeches could bring this man down from his enormous egocentric mind.

“David.” Stern sneered, “He is like the wind, a gush of air. You can feel him coming, but once you reach out your hands and hold him,” The General demonstrated the same as vigorous as he could, with a closed fist above the young guard’s shoulder, “He will be gone.” Stern freed his clenched fist in front of the young man, blowing off the little air that he captured in his attack. “Disappearing into thin air. Now, if you want,” Stern sought his faint memories for the name he just learned, “Jeffrey. Don’t wait till the eleventh hour. Get out of here as soon,” His words came to a sudden halt with a tiny object clattering on the floor amidst the two.

########

This was supposed to be one big story. But um, I was trying something new, you know- including more descriptions, more imagery, a slower pace and some other little things ^-^ And it turned out too big. To be honest, I still haven’t finished it. So, I thought that it might be a better idea to divide the piece in two. Hopefully, it ends in two (: And um, the next part will be a bit darker than all of my posts. I hope it turns out okay... So, I hope you guys like this one ^-^ His stories are coming to an end soon. So... I shouldn’t have said that XD Anyway, as always, thanks a lot for the support, guys. I would never have done any of this if it wasn’t for you all. Lots of love, CS. <3

#fiction

A long time back, in Denmark, 

There ruled a king, so wise, so strong 

With such a heart and not one foe,

He was killed by his own brother Claudio!

The queen, the prince, the kingdom mourned 

“Who will be our next king?” a question rose 

Right in time for Claudius,

Whom the queen married in just two months!

She chose this bloke to bed and throne

Not knowing he was evil from skin to bone!

Then one day, truth reached the son,

Who pledged the demise of this demon.

But he never expected that somehow,

This would take the life of his lady love

Whose brother then challenged the young prince,

For a duel in the royal province.

Little did the young prince know, 

That his opponent had a poisoned bilbo 

A sword presented by Claudius,

That could kill a man in a minute or less!

Though the prince won his fight,

The poison was killing him from inside.

As sins once made, won’t leave without a scar, 

Fate began to play its part.

Suddenly the queen’s face turned dun, 

As she drank the wine meant for her son

Now that all he adored was gone, 

The prince’s wrath began to spawn.

With every ounce of energy he possessed,

He edged towards the vile tyrant 

And stabbed him with his own bilbo 

And made him drink the wine he poured.

Can a man’s life be more tragic? 

Can a person be more stoic? 

But that’s the tale of the Denmark prince

Who suffered so much, yet never winced!

Will you be pleased to know his name?

Will you join me and spread his fame?

Then say, loud enough to bring the roof to the floor,

Hail Hamlet! Hail Hamlet! The real hero!

I used to write poems about memories of childhood rainstorms, 

when the sunlight sifted softly through the smiling drizzle

and the clouds smiled as though they had nothing to hide. 

But now, the rain does not hold a smiling face or the beauty of an untouched childhood, 

it is the raw reality of the blood it washes away in alleyways,

the tears it mixes with as it slides down windowsills and along sidewalks. 

It is loneliness, the toxicity, the forever flowing of a false friend in springtime, 

coming to the people who can't see the flowers, saying,  

"dearest, the storm will save you, put faith in the beauty of a spring thunderstorm" 

and that is why children are scared of thunder and lightning, 

because they can sense something's wrong, but can't recognize

what it is. 

and yet, here I am, sitting with the rain, 

letting it flow down me, cleansing me of something, anything, 

letting it take my tears like they were never mine, to begin with. 

the people would wonder, why I am standing out under the sky, 

in the middle of the night when the only people awake are those whose dreams haunt them,

why I am standing out under the stars-

oh wait... there are no stars, they have been covered by clouds, blurred out with rain.

I know it sounds dramatic that I went outside in the rain to weep,

my tears mixing with the water, the dirt, the toxins washed from the air, 

pushed into rain, disguised with petrichor. 

I know it's weak that I flinched every time the raindrops 

cold, unwelcome

hit my upturned face, but I had to be a part of the storm, 

I had to witness the loneliness of a tempest that has not calmed. 

or perhaps,

perhaps I was one of those people that the rain whispered to, 

telling me to put faith in a tempest

and perhaps, 

perhaps I believed in their lies. 

don't believe them, 

a storm is a chaotic, 

messed-up, 

lonely, 

toxic, 

piece of 

reality. 

1942, Augsburg

″Heil Hitler.” The senior commander’s hoarse voice reflected within the walls of the ominous camp, designed to segregate the unworthy souls from the superior Aryans. The day was cloudy- the first raindrops slowly splashed against the concrete floors. But no rains or thunderstorms could cease the never-ending toil of the impure souls. Deemed to suffer, struggle and serve the worthy, they lived enclosed in a cage, from where there was no escape. Their lives belonged to the Fuhrer- he owned them, puppets to please his terrifying fantasies.

But little Charles always craved to know more about the world outside. Having never seen the light of the day, except through the cracked walls or the windows up high, he dreamt every night of seeing the world through his own eyes. His heart ached to feel the heat of the sun and the calm of the woods. But all he ever knew was the icy rails, the rotten slices of leftover bread and the horrifying voices of the brutal soldiers. He would never see what was outside those electric fences.

No matter their tender age, the militants never heeded to their hopeless cries. The children were lost, alone and had nothing to call a family anymore. Guns and explosions slaughtered whatever they had in their lives once- their homes, their families, their friends, everything. They made a single mistake, one they could never control- they were born Jews. And hence, they were destined to breathe the rest of their lives under someone’s feet.

However, young Charles was determined this time, and nothing in this world could hinder him from taking on this suicide mission, not even his friends, not even Juliet. He had to get out there in the world, and after tonight, he knew he might never have the chance again. It was his final ray of hope. Every year, on the 20th of April, the soldiers put on a celebration, glorifying yet another year’s fulfilment in the Fuhrer’s life. They would deliver speeches on how dignified his vision was, why Jews were souls to condemn, and how Germany would rise to the top of the world. And the hustles and bustles of the day were more than enough for a four-feet child to earn his redemption, or so Charles believed.

And as days passed away one by one, Charles grew more and more closer towards his salvation. He was about to experience the light and warmth of the sun, away from the frozen cells. None accompanied him in this dangerous endeavour, but little Charles was confident that his plans could work out. On the night before his flight, he spoke with his friends for one last time. He tried to convince them to join him in this attempt, but they had chosen to rot their lives away in the ice-cold dungeons, all except Juliet. After Charles’ persuasion for days, she ultimately agreed to follow him on this fatal mission.

Finally, the dawn arrived. When the sun rises in the east, Charles and Juliet would be far away from the brutal lives they lived together. They would open their eyes to a whole new world, one where no one would torture them until they pass out, one where they are free. Before the soldiers appeared to wake the children out of their innocent slumber, the two ran off through the doorways and halls that led to the back door where the fences were left unmended. The commotions of the arrangements had taken almost all the soldiers off the camp’s insides, making their trails a lot clearer.

Charles and Juliet ultimately stood near the back door, where all the regiment vehicles remained. They were a single run away towards their freedom, away from their tumultuous childhood. Juliet held his hand, unable to believe that they succeeded in performing something implausible. She looked him in his eyes, with tears of inexplicable happiness, holding to him even tighter to ensure herself that she was not fantasising about what she saw. They took off one last time to their liberation- their little footsteps resounding within the chamber, hardly containing their squeaks of joy, feeling the cold wind rush against them. They could see the sun peeking at them from behind the hills- the only witness of their story of survival.

Suddenly, two gunshots echoed within the room, accompanied by the cry of agony from a little girl. Charles fell on the damp floor along with Juliet, her hands still holding him tight. The bullets carved holes on her childish frame, blood gushing out of her mouth. But she was not grieving- the pain of slowly succumbing to her death was not present on her face. But she quietly looked at him, a smile of hope lingering on her face. She uttered two final words before the soldier grasped him away from her hold, despite his screams and pleading, leaving her to a lonely death, ”Thank you.”

2012, Grindelwald

Something shook Charles out of his nightmare, one that he found himself in every night. The room was small, just enough for Charles to barely move around. With little furniture and no memoirs from the past, it was as if he spent his days and nights in a hotel room. Someone has drawn the curtains back despite him telling them never to do so. The lights were unbearable for the elderly gentleman, especially the sun rays. He firmly believed that the radiations would burn him to the core, make him feel all the agony- he could never remember why.

Charles shakily stood up, desperately waving his hands in the air for support. But there never was a shoulder. He tumbled on the wooden floor, pain surging through his delicate ribs and knees. He slithered, with all his effort, to a corner where the sun could not hurt him. He pulled down an old, dirty rug and sheltered himself under the darkness. Knees close to the chest, he could never let the rays touch him- they would kill him.

Memories distorted, legs unable to carry his weight, trembling hands, weak eyesight and senses- he was now a crippling senior man who awaited his death to arrive and carry him away. He could never remember what he passed through in the past, except during the nights when he endured the terrors of his former life every day. But when he woke up, all of them would be gone. He could never remember why he was panting heavily every morning. He could only remember a name, Juliet, and that he could never feel the sun.

#####

Thanks to Reedsy.com for this amazing prompt (Write about a character who thinks they have a sun allergy) which helped me to write another story after a considerably long time. I really, really needed this push. Well, I have to return the favour, of course. I mean, I wouldn’t really mind. It was a huge help. Thank you, Reedsy ^-^ Well, we can all find such amazing prompts right there:

https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts

P.S: I am not an advert. This is me, myself XD And by God, I missed you all so, so much <3 I have a lot and a lot and a lot to tell ^-^

#fiction

I am the queen,

Of my little town

I am the queen,

Without a crown!

The hut is my palace,

The chair is my throne

My people have no malice,

My people never frown!

In my queendom

Of love and joy,

There is wit and wisdom

In every girl and boy.

I am no Helen,

I am no Psyche

For I rule the haven,

A place many seek.

That’s who I am,

The queen of my town

And that’s what I am,

A queen without a crown!

I have not been as active on Prose as I used to be. Though this is not what this post is about, nor is it why you were tagged, I will briefly cover that before getting to the important information: the reason why I tagged Proserville and the writers of The Kincade Chronicles. To my followers who I have also tagged: sorry. The mass-tagging of all of my followers will happen next to never. Just warning those of you who want to know.

When I started, I was making sure I was posting once a week. I kept this up for almost six months, and then I burned myself out. Finally recovered from my burn out, I wrote Home, which I thought was great, and the feelings seemed to be shared with those who read it. Then all of the group projects were started, so I shifted focus to those, which is why I did not write much after that entry. I have something planned, and I am hoping to write it soon, though I do not know when I will write it because, as I stated, I have shifted my focus to the books that were started.

Over the course of my burn out, I realized that writing is a hobby that I am supposed to enjoy. Forcing myself to write will just produce poorly written stories and cause unnecessary stress. If I do not have time, I do not have to write. Eventually, I will figure out a schedule again; but, for now I will be posting whenever I have the time/inspiration to write. I have a couple stories planned, and, who knows, maybe I will finally work on the book I promised all those months back.

Now for the important part. Huge news. And with this huge, amazing news, there is a little bit of bad news for my Prose family.

On Friday, my Civil Air Patrol squadron (and a few other squadrons) were given the amazing opportunity to go to an Air National Guard base to fly in a C-130 (which, for those of you who do not know, is a military cargo plane). The flight was amazing, I learned a lot in the talks and tour before the flight, and standing in the cockpit while the pilots bob and weave through the air was amazing. They also opened the cargo door, and two of the crew walked onto it.

That was incredible. One of the coolest things I have ever done. I did not think that the day could get any better, but it did.

Many of the cadets in my squadron, including myself, wish to become a pilot. Knowing this, the senior members were trying to find a flight instructor who was willing to come to the airport where we hold meetings to train us how to fly. They were hoping to aid in the cost a little bit by doing more fundraisers. In fact, during the tour I mentioned to one of the senior members that, since we had done it before, we could probably hold a fundraiser where I work.

On the way home, we stopped at a gas station to drop off one of the cadets whose parents wanted to meet us somewhere along the route, rather than at the airport since they lived along the route. Once there, one of the senior members (you do not know how much I want to use names) exited his truck, climbed into the passenger seat of the van I was in (the senior members who were in the front had stepped out to stretch their legs) and said, “How many of you want to become pilots?”

In his magnificent way of explaining things, he told us this: there was a senior member who went to a squadron not far from us. This man was willing to give us our flying lessons one hundred percent for free. We would not be paying a dime! On top of that, if the weather is bad, he owned an FAA approved flight simulator, which he purchased with his own money, that we will be allowed to use.

Immediately you may be thinking: what’s the catch? The catch is that we have to show initiative and dedication to becoming a pilot.

My heart did somersaults. I began to shake. It is things like this that make me believe in God. As many of you know, I was struggling with figuring out my future. What am I supposed to do? What is my next step? After a lot of support from friends, family, and you guys, I decided to take life one step at a time and rely on God to lead me to the right path in life. I prayed about my future on a daily basis, and I placed it in His hands. Lo and behold, only a couple weeks later, “the chance that [I] asked for… showed up on my doorstep like, thud-thud, I’m here” (LAYERS by NF). I went to God, and $10,000 worth of flight training was offered to me for free.

It’s… it’s… “unbelievable (yes, yes), inconceivable” (CLOUDS by NF. I am a little obsessed. Okay, maybe a lot a bit. Don't judge me!). One of my dreams quite literally fell into my lap.

So what does this mean? Why did I tag you? Well, I tagged you to announce that I will not be as active as I want to be. I need to focus on my studies. I have driver’s ed to finish, and I need to study for the tests that are prerequisites for taking flying lessons.

What will this mean for Proserville and Kincadia (I hope you don’t mind my calling it that)? I will still be as actively involved in those projects as I can be, but if I find myself unable to make a deadline, I will ensure that you know what is going on.

For those of you who tag me: feel free to continue doing so. I will still read it.

I will learn more details about what is going to happen on Tuesday. I will make sure to update you (Kincadia and Proserville). I have four more weeks of school if I am not mistaken, by that point, I should be able to start writing more frequently.

Thank you for the love and support! I love you guys… and I mean it!

Until next time,

~CJ

This Valentine...

I don't want a fine dine

Neither any hallmark cards

Nor any candied hearts

Neither those matching outfits I once wished

Nor this full lip to be tenderly kissed

This Valentine...

I want you to be mine

Your warm hand in my frozen ones

Your presence besides, under the stars

Not just the memories to give me company

Nor just that dried white rose in my diary

This Valentine...

Please come back to that shrine

Where we met for the first time

And made a promise of lifetime

Come back either as my moonshine

Or my eternal sunshine

This Valentine...

You cross that divine city's boderline

I will meet you at a magical sunset

Away from this mortal world's gate

From sunset to sunset, just me and you

Can you listen from the heaven, I miss you!!!

This Valentine...

Just

This Valentine...

NOTE :- I have written this long ago, during Valentine's day as a respect to the loved ones of the Pulwama Attacked soilders as 14th of February is also the Black Day of India.

It begins with p.

and in the middle is it.

Now you can ask y.