To Market Bob!
You can’t sell a cotton swab
If he does not have ears
You can’t sell a hanger, Bob
If wrinkles give no fears
You can’t sell a cowbells’ sound
To kids that have no farms
You can’t sell the drum set sound
The boy has little arms
You can’t sell your good advice
Until the student’s ready
He won’t hear not once or twice
Still clinging to his teddy
Bob wait until demand is there
To market you will go
Invest in patience and in prayer
The boy you know will grow
He’ll tuck away his teddy, ready for the sells
Now he buys the cotton swabs, the boy he now has ears
You’ll sell the sound of drums and bells
The music he now hears
You’ll sell the sound of sweet advice
And hangers for his clothes
Your prayer and patience were the price
For all the things he knows
Get Your Words Discovered
Good Morning, Prosers,
The way publishers find new authors might have just changed forever.
We are pleased to announce that we have joined forces with publishing giant Simon & Schuster, whose legacy includes Ernest Hemingway, Carrie Fisher, and Stephen King.
Simon & Schuster’s editing team hopes to discover the next generation of great authors by utilising our challenge feature and our social community, initially through a 500-2000 word writing challenge that ends June 1, prompting you to, “Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by Simon & Schuster’s editorial staff for consideration.”
This challenge stipulates a minimum of 500 entries and a maximum of 2,000.
We will announce the top-50 entries on June 21, 2017.
Here is the challenge URL: https://theprose.com/challenge/5367
We hope you are as excited about this as we are. If you know people who would like to get noticed by Simon & Schuster, spread the word(s).
Until next time, Prosers,
Prose.
Pulse, or the Ways Orlando Has Rewritten My Spirit.
Pulse is a name I will never forget.
Ricocheting bullets that could have ripped through my transgender flesh.
Of course, you blame it on the Muslims.
Sorry, it wasn't them. It was one asshole, product of his time, who wanted us dead.
Even though it's been forty-seven years since Stonewall.
Pulse is a name I will never forget.
Really, I thought I was safe because it's been forty-seven years.
Obviously I was wrong. No one is safe.
Such quiet lovely passion in my heart, and the natural complexity of humanity:
Enough to warrant a death sentence.
Pulse is a name I will never forget. It will
Riot in my heart, reach past my tender years to the core of me.
Oscillate between fear and terror.
Siblings, queer brothers and sisters and nonbinary loved ones,
Each of your names sings in my blood.
Pulse is a name I will never forget.
Remember it, scrawl it into your soul like Stonewall.
Obey the call of bravery and pride that echoes under your skin.
Such hatred will not change the fact of who I am.
Everyday I will exist. No one can stop us now.
Please listen. He cannot
Rob me of who I am. I am genderqueer.
Omit nothing - I am pansexual.
Scribble this down, I will not be denied.
Eliminate your ignorance, excise your
Prejudice, because that is what made him.
Really, all we want is to be accepted. This
Odyssey
Should be over by now.
Each of us are human. Stop killing us. Accept us as your equals.
Pulse is a name I will never forget.
Dancing Lighthouses
Twilight sets upon suburban streets,
the wind is gentle in the tops of trees,
just above the grass, the light show begins,
a pulsing glow of many, in yellow-greenish.
Dancing Lighthouses moving in air,
calling to lightless ships, I am here;
promising a safe harbor for sure,
signaling distant ladies to port.
As the night draws over,
and the umbra sets in,
the ships move closer,
and the Lighthouses darken.
Hearken the silence;
next generation in progress...
-M.E.
201606102333
(image credited to emaze.com)
Xeriscape
Rock.
Rock. Paper.
Rock. Paper. Scissors.
Rocks.
More rocks.
1, 2, 3...
Futile to count.
Rocks as far as the eye can see.
And then some.
Rocks for miles.
And miles and miles.
Trees erupt here and there, seemingly out of place.
And shrubberies, for Monty Python fans.
Oh, and concrete.
Acres of concrete.
Rocks, lonely trees, assorted shrubberies, and concrete.
Welcome to Las Vegas.
Arid.
Desert.
Hotter than hell.
Although that is pure speculation.
Rock. Paper. Scissors.
Lizard. Spock.
The lizard would be happy.
Imminent Domain
Spreading, enveloping,
Pressing
The world lies strangled
Under marching feet
Like ants
Across Leiningen’s fields
Iron mandibles crush
And sever split and
steal everything
Is borne to far away
Queens to devour
While dribbling eggs
from bloated bursting
Abdomens
Perpetuating successive
Waves of voracious
drones that take
And take until
Nothing survives
What then?
