we knew this month was for us

it's sunny in L.A.

remember the short man at the farmer's market?

he tried to get our numbers

you made a tight fist and an angry face

the short man turned and walked away

after that, I felt an air of freedom between us

your cherry-stained lips won over my mind

my heart

and my everything in between

being a winner came easy to you, didn't it?

you always shadowed a color that didn't exist

you made up your own colors

magenle

oralue

yeled

your colors never disappoint

please come back this February

it's sunny in L.A.

i'll bring the cherries

you

bring

you

Dusk started to fill the room. It was quiet. It hadn't been this quiet in many years. The surrounding mahogany walls made it feel darker than it was. I was alone. I could finally breathe in the sound of nothing. No kids running a muck, no significant other calling my name and no animal scurrying about. No staff, no phone calls and no appliances running. I picked up my sweaty glass of bourbon and listened to the melting ice cubes clink against the glass. It was almost empty. I reached forward, grabbing the full bottle sliding it towards me. The dragging sound of the thick glass searing a deep scuff into the wood would have normally sent me into a freefall. But now, it felt good. I pushed and pulled it a bit harder to deepen the wound. Steadying my barely full glass, I recklessly began to pour. Sprits of bourbon splashed down on the wood, surely causing more damage. I took a big swig and slammed my glass down on the table breeding a fleet of armed droplets.

My breathing paced as I swallowed the vastness of the room. I couldn't believe I'd done it. Accomplished all this. The arched floor to ceiling windows stole the show. They gave a birds eye view of the never ending manicured lawn. Their solid gold hinges diverted the last flashes of daylight. I watched as small bursts of yellow light blazed against the walls. I hadn't noticed how magical it had looked before.

Placing my hands on the table, I pushed back to stand up, causing the chair to buckle back and hit the ground. I picked up my glass and walked over to the colossal curio cabinet against the far wall. It was full of treasures I've collected from around the world. I creaked open the glass door and chose the the prestige hand painted floral vase I curated from France. Neglintely, I spun it around in my singular hand to get a better look at it. Pretty, I thought as I let it slip from my grasp. It so delicately shattered into unfixable pieces. The tiny chips crunched as I aimlessly walked through them choosing another seat at the table. This time I opted for a better view of the effervescent terrace.

I swigged back the remainder of my drink in its entirety, proceeding to chuck the empty one of kind crystal against the wall. Dark filled the room and the imploding buzz of fractured glass surged through me inducing a brief moment of happiness. It was quiet funny, I thought as my belly stirred with laughter. How had I so quickly forgotten what that felt like?

Have you ever fantasized about having the whole world, but being too daft to notice?

Ripped jeans and a sweatshirt,

tapping the cap of the pen,

she sits, stare and paper

vacant, and you wonder what’s

behind her eyes, what plans

or dreams, concentration or

boredom she channels into

the incessant flick of her

pen, purple, as it happens—and

upright now, in rapid, pressed

motion across the page with

ink flowing thick as she

leans over creation itself and

writes.

my heart was too whole

so we tore, you and I

your memory, my mind

your hair brushed back

young laugh young eyes

unwritten days

and I remember

I once had a dream

that when we pass on,

it wasn’t our minds that

transcend and transform,

but shades of our vibrations,

colours of auras,

that float into the cosmos,

illuminating the darkness.

Vibrant brushes of crimson

for those driven by anger,

soothing strokes of green

for the empaths and carers,

highlights of gold

sparkling for the innocent,

a multicoloured universe

creating something

quite magnificent.

In my dream I could I gaze upon,

a spectrum of colourful souls,

....a kaleidoscopic canvas,

all blending together as one.

moonwalker,

look into my eyes and convince me

that you breathe the same stardust as I

for I'm told that I'm made from the

same soul-enduring clay as everyone else

and as you

but this eternal ticking beneath my eyelids

reminds me of my own ephemeral existence

and sometimes

I'm afraid I'll dissolve mid-thought into some

unknown

intangible

collection of spinning stars

or worse

I'll remain confoundingly mortal even after

time itself has given up on me

We are here

two people

in hopes of

satisfaction

jolyful need

release from life

to feel wanted

to feed off need

to rise up

feel that moment

inhale scent

exhale desire

look at each other

smile

and start over

again.

Breathe in, breathe out

A text popped on my phone. It was him. My body has adjusted itself to the unsettling motion of trains. I don't trust google maps but today I did. We were two stations away. As each station crossed by my heartbeat competes to the speed of the train. I was finally going to meet him. It's strange how you love someone without seeing them.  Time passed and the moment arrived. I got down from the train. Eyes looked for him. He was there wearing a blue sweater. I ran to him and hugged him tightly. It was the first time I met him. I sighed and then turned back to get on the train. I couldn't see his wet eyes. But the train was ready to go. It was our first and last meeting.  

Because my journalism profs would tell me not to bury the lede, let me start by saying I wrote a hitherto-unseen poem that got published here: http://www.sleetmagazine.com/selected/love_v12n2.html. I’ve also had a short story selected for publication by The Copperfield Review, and I’ll post a link to it when it goes live in December.

I owe you people, and what follows is a bit about why. [You should probably go read the poem first; it’s approximately 1100 words shorter than this post.]

If you’re a longtime reader, you might know that I forced myself to create a Prose account a little over a year ago because the creative well was dry. It might be more accurate to say that it was a pretty unproductive well to begin with, and after it went dry I had said, “who needs a well, anyway?” and wandered off to buy Aquafina. But on October 16 of last year, I reopened the browser tab I had just closed and said, “no, you’re going to do this, you’re going to make an account and enter that contest with that stupid prompt.”

Other people commented on what I wrote. And I read and commented on other people’s writing, which made me want to write more, so I did. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

It’s a remarkable thing to have an audience.

It’s a remarkable thing to have a writing community.

A couple weeks ago—exactly on October 16—I clicked my profile and saw a significant number: 365 followers, one a day since I joined. [OK, at least half a dozen of those just wanted me to try the Keto diet and a few more only clicked cuz I was site-suggested and they never read a damn thing and also it was a leap year, but still,] that is far more readership than I’ve had in my life. My responses to them are inconsistent at best, but I treasure every comment.

There’s an extent to which a followers list is a graveyard. Listed alongside the living are users who flew in and out one night and were done, or those who dove in with vigor for a month or so and then disappeared. Seeing names of those writers whom I admired and who trailed off without fanfare, I feel sad; I feel proud. I wonder where they are, if they’re OK, if they’re still writing. I know that I am, and that’s an achievement for me. I’ve written for a solid year. When I told myself, “I’ll get back to writing after this obligation has passed,” it turned out that I meant it. It’s hard to say if those one-time writers are still at it. I’d like to think they merely migrated to a place where the grass looked greener.

I’m not going anywhere. Prose has proven a bountiful pasture for me. Here’s something I posted just a couple weeks into my Prose tenure, I think for my first-ever weekly challenge:

My smaller desire, the one I would confess to few outside of Prose, is for something I wrote to be selected for publication. That would take me beyond this little world. It would mean that I could have my provincial cake and eat it too. I could live a small life but know that my thoughts and passions had been shared, been communicated to people beyond the boundaries of my county. There is a sense in which I am a writer. I would like to feel like a real writer. I would like something I have written to be chosen.

I do not endorse that line of thinking. As a friend once told me, “A writer is one who writes,” and I readily and happily apply that definition to others. Still, I could never feel it of myself, and I hoped that at some future time I might get validation and see beyond my “dilettante hack” self-image. That’s what publication meant to me, and to my amazement, it has happened now. I can check one off the bucket list.

There was a precise point in time when my publication dream worked its way out of the pipe into real possibility. Many Prosers had made many kind comments—too many to thank, and I am genuinely sorry for the omissions; I hope you know who you are and that your words matter. The comments helped me to keep writing and think that someday, if I persisted and worked very hard and had a little luck, someone would choose my writing for publication. The exact tipping point, when I believed I could make it happen now, came after I wrote a story titled “Rideshare.” Several of the writers on Prose whom I most respect said it was genuinely good, in the comment section or via DM. The comment that most directly made a believer out of me was from @Scratch77: “Congrats, man, you’re the real deal…”

Just now, when two inches rather than six months separated the phrases, I finally realized why his choice of words hit home: it was my own. I had written, “I would like to feel like a real writer.” When that word real came back at me, it all became real.

My profile text says “I teach high school English,” and unless I’m hacked or fired, it always will. It’s a declaration of identity and principles. I am not a writer who pays the bills by teaching; I am a teacher. It’s what I love and what I do best. But the writing part, for the first time, feels real, too.

Without many, many users in the Prose community, that reality would not have come. I would not have tried for publication to begin with, and even if I had, I would have given up when the rejection notices started to roll in (and they are legion). But I kept at it.

If I tried to thank everyone I should, I’d leave someone out and then just feel guilty, so again, I’m trusting you to recognize yourselves in this letter. I do need to thank three people who directly influenced “the raspberries.” First, @paintingskies, who graciously shared tips for submitting pieces, including the resource where I found Sleet Magazine in the first place. She does not know it, but I also owe Sam for another reason: right at the time I was revising, one of her wonderful poems used the word “watercolor,” and I suddenly realized what line was missing from my own poem. I am further indebted, as has often been the case, to friends and editors @TomJonas and @Posey, who brought the final clarity I needed to get the phrasing just right.

Hopefully you took my advice and already read the poem through that link, because if not, I’ve now built it up way too much. But, from the bottom of my heart, thank you :)