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Smooth Operator, a jealous heart, a neurotic, reclamation, and let it bleed.
When sentiment is left to chance, thoughts of Sade opens episode 29 on the show, into a perfect hand of five pieces from five writers on the site, up to ride on the airwaves from here, their words into you.
Here's the link to Prose. Radio:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nZP9zXwUkek
And here are the pieces featured:
https://www.theprose.com/post/538382/fall-ritual https://www.theprose.com/post/814220/for-clarencet https://www.theprose.com/post/813959/errant-thoughts
https://www.theprose.com/post/814081/reclaiming-me https://www.theprose.com/post/814211/3-kinds-of-followers
And, as always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
UNACHIEVABLE
The first lesson you learn in life is that life is hard. It just is. You look in the mirror everyday and dont like what you see, but you are stuck with who you are, you are stuck in this body you don’t identify with, the body that doesn’t feel like you. You wake up every morning wanting to stay in bed and pray to god that you sink into the mattress and just disappear. From school, family, and friends, from everything. Absolutely everything. You show up to school regardless though, because that's what's expected from you, and god forbid you let anyone down. You see your friends and paste the artificial smile you have been using since middle school, you laugh with them, cry with them, fight with them, but never really feel like a part of them. You force yourself to do the schoolwork, force yourself to study so you can get by the tests, so your parents stay relatively happy. ‘But what about you, what about your own happiness’ your therapist continuously questions. You shake your head and smile that sad, tired smile only he has been allowed to see. ‘My happiness is irrelevant, it's impossible even, unachievable.’
NOTE
idk it’s been a while Since I’ve written and I was bored so this is random
Why I Write
He really liked my writing, actually. He was fascinated with my words. He had an uncanny ability to memorize any passage of literature no matter how large it was. He read every poem, short story, and even edited my first novel. I guess he thought it would impress me if he could quote my own words back at me. I found it awkward. At first, I really enjoyed it. He was more enthusiastic to read my work than any friend, romantic or otherwise, had ever been. But it changed. He started asking me if I'd written anything. If I had, he just absolutely had to get his hands on it. I'd always said my writing was a part of me. Quoting my words back to me, he said he just wanted to get to know me.
I know lying is wrong, but when he asked if I had created anything recently, no matter what had flowed onto the page, I said no. I preferred to volunteer pieces for his consumption and criticism. It worked for a little while. I could relax and write whatever I wanted to. My therapist recommended journaling and even gave me a composition book to use.
In my free time, I often used the journal. I hadn't handwritten much in a while, but it was even more cathartic than my keyboard. He caught me one time, writing an entry with a poem and a drawing of a bird tacked onto the bottom.
He asked to see it, and when I refused, it was like a cold breeze blew into the room. His entire demeanor changed. It darkened in a physical way that I'd never experienced from him before. "Are you hiding something from me?"
Naive as I was, I found no other argument to prove my innocence than to hand over the entry. And to my deepening horror, he flipped open to the first page. Any protest that the words in there were private, were hushed and waved away as if I were just a fly. I told him that I couldn't watch him read it in front of me and I let him take it home.
I wish I could go back to that moment sometimes and dump him right there on the spot. He claimed a relationship was built on trust, and if I didn't trust him, then we couldn't be together. But I could have done two things: first, I could have said, alright, then I don't trust you and we would have ended. Second, I could have accused him of not trusting me. But I was so afraid of losing him, of losing someone who cared about me, that I let him walk all over me.
I stopped writing.
I lied to my therapist about the journal.
I attempted a few soulless poems. Though likely some of my prettiest verses, all for him, I've since deleted them.
He thanked me for my openness with the journal when he gave it back to me. I still have the journal. I never filled in the last twenty pages or so, even though I had wanted, originally, to complete the entire thing like a physical copy of my memories, my emotions, and my ponderings. I haven't ever gone back to read it, despite the memory lapses, for there was more than just the manipulation. I don't keep it to remind myself of the pain and stupidity of that year and a half. I keep it to remind myself that I won't be naive or allow myself to be smothered. I keep it to remind myself to keep writing. Not for him, not for my friends, not for my family, not even for my husband who I'm completely enamored with. I keep writing for myself.
A Rejection Letter
From: WSQPA
To: Mr. Baruch/Benedictus Spinoza, philosopher
April 10, 2024
Dear Mr. Spinoza,
Stop.
Do not bother us again.
We, the Board of the World Status Quo Protection Agency, reject your unsolicited critique of our twenty-first century.
You were the seventeenth century’s problem. Not ours.
How dare you ask questions and seek to arrive at beliefs and truth individually through reason. Citizens today have banded together in groups to hear the truth and facts from sources that comport with their worldview. We have no need of philosophers in 2024.
Thus, our status quo is groupthink.
Yes, our groups clash and there are wars that are political, spiritual, and militaristic. But they are part of our status quo.
You are free in your ivory tower to sneer at our way, and claim we are pursuing false “knowledge from random experience.” It is no wonder that you were excommunicated for your radical ideas.
We know that you worked with lenses for microscopes and telescopes. But you have no right to put our status quo under your microscope.
Warmly,
WSQPA
1 — EDIFICE OF MY WORLDVIEW
(Song for the Chapter: GOD Will Work It Out)
• • • • • • •
"En garde. Prêtes. Allez."
Violet launched forward, her heart racing. She willed her beating heart to be calm. She focused on her movements as she advanced. This was a game of strategy. Her mind needed to be focused.
Dear GOD, please help me, she prayed quietly within. She tried to also focus on the beings that always radiated light.
She held her sword and tried to defend against her opponent's attacks to corner her. This was her last match in the championship.
But, something felt different—not wrong, just different.
She glanced around at where they always positioned themselves during her matches—the angels. They only stood there quietly. She had seen that stance before.
But, when?
In the heat of the game, she could not recall.
Violet spun around in a circle. There were hostile spirits around, but no, there was no attack—
"En garde." the referee called out.
Okay, Violet. She pulled her helmet back on.
One more point to win.
They were at a tie—she and her opponent. After a moment of trying to get back to the mid-point, she finally saw her advantage, launched forward at tough speed, and reaching out beyond her limits, she struck. The light went on. It had been a simultaneous attack.
Violet's heart beat rapidly as she waited for the announcement. Her heart beat even faster.
Who would get the point? Did I fail?
The referee stretched his right arm out extensively, then the left, and finally, the right palm up, to finally announce her victory as a point was added to her name.
"Attaque. Touche. Point."
She screamed as the crowd also erupted in raucous applause.
"Attention, please," the referee announced trying to still the cheering crowd. "Attention. Salut."
She went to her starting point and taking off her helmet, she saluted, then she went forth to greet her opponent.
She couldn't believe it. Another gold medal. She looked for her brother, Prince Tal, amongst those who were trying to get close to her.
He beamed brightly and went forth to meet her, not realising he had walked through the midst of the Heavenly Guardians. And, as she approached him, she felt the agonising pain in her shoulder.
Agh! She screamed in agony.
"Violet?!" Her brother called out.
As her vision blurred from the intensity of the pain, she remembered. The Heavenly beings always took that stance whenever they had to give way for something to occur—for THE FATHER'S GLORY.
———————-
"I would advise that she takes a period to have some rest. The simultaneous touch has deeply affected her shoulder," the doctor said his warm grey eyes soft with sympathy. "I think she should give fencing a break for now till she heals completely."
"No! Tal, tell them. I have to train for the next season," Violet interjected, her voice trembling with fear as she lay on the hospital bed."I'm only seventeen and have to..." her voice quaked and she broke into sobs.
"Doctor," Tal turned to him, "thank you very much. We will see to that."
The doctor nodded understandably and left the room.
Tal slowly advanced to his sister and sat by her, placing an arm around her uninjured shoulder.
"Hey," he said in his soothing and loving voice. It had always calmed her. But at that moment, she felt bereft of the joy and comfort it often gave her.
He had been the only one she had since their parents had died.
He gently touched her cheek and turned her face to himself. Gently using his fingers, he wiped her tears away.
"It's going to be okay. This is just temporary. I know it means a lot to you. But remember, GOD works everything out for our good even if we realise it or not. So, Vee, take a break as you have been told."
He pulled her into his arms in an embrace as he had often done since she was a kid, patting her back. And he softly hummed her favourite song before voicing it out, "GOD will work it out."
Other angelic voices joined in chorus and her attention was drawn to them. In her desperation, she had forgotten they were present.
That brought her comfort, even in that trying moment when she felt depressed and that all hope was lost and the world was collapsing around her.
One of the angels named Abdiel, smiled at her. The smile so familiar, which reflected that of her Loving LORD. It reminded her of many times since her childhood when all had seemed murky and dark.
Her LORD JESUS had been her ever-present Companion. She remembered when she had received her first vision of HIM.
After the death of her parents, she had been in a haze. Everything had felt overwhelming, and she had wondered if she would ever see her parents again—and she encountered HIM.
Her mind snapped back to the present; to the song they sang. They were right. Though she was in pain and felt shattered, The LORD was going to work it all out. She willed her aching heart to resign to her fate, though it seemed slow in obeying the order.
She felt her body relax as they continued to sing the song.
"Okay," she finally said, emotion filling her voice. She wiped off the rest of her tears. "Alright, I will do that. Things are going to be fine, right?"
She pulled away from his embrace and looked up at him, desperately seeking his affirmation. He smiled and nodded in his gentle manner and drew her closer again.
"And my little Vee," he went on to say, his voice thickening and expression turning grave, "I know this is not the right moment, but there is something we must discuss."
———————————
Violet felt discombobulated, the dark evening matched her feelings as she stood at the front entrance to the Villa of the Ferraris with her brother—and her suitcase.
Well, they were not exactly alone. The angels were around, swords drawn out.
Her palms felt sweaty around the handle of the suitcase, her mind and heart feeling unsettled about the future. They would soon be ushered in.
Violet couldn't believe how things had turned out. She recalled the conversation she had had with her brother after her injury.
~
"Things are going awry in terms of security," he tried to tell her as calmly as he could despite the gravity of the situation.
Because he knew it was going to be a big blow to his sister with the ordeal she was going through.
She had pulled away once more to stare him in the face, alarm and concern etched deeply on her already saddened countenance.
"Do you remember me telling you about Vladimir?" She nodded in response.
"Yes?" She replied, her tone rising slightly in question and a confused frown on her face.
"The Mafia leader they finally arrested, right? What about him?" She turned to fully look at him.
Though he tried to make his voice sound soft, she could sense the weightiness in his tone about what he was going to tell her.
Tal sighed and ran his hand through his blonde, beautiful hair. He often did that when he was going to say something he did not relish revealing.
"He has escaped, Vee. And we can't seem to find him. Our intel tells us he is targeting the King Makers. And it won't be safe for us to live together anymore. You are likely one of his targets."
"That's no problem. GOD is with me. And, you've taught me all about self-defence. All will be fine." She tried to sound cheerful, despite the deep concern engraved on her brother's face.
"It's more complex than that, Vee. So, for the sake of your safety, we have to live apart for a moment."
"What?" She was exasperated. She needed her brother more than ever before. Especially, in her present predicament.
"Being with you is the best option! We have been through a lot together and..." her voice wobbled again, the feeling of depression weighing heavily on her chest.
She remembered all they had gone through, the loss of their parents being the greatest of all.
"Vee, listen to me," he finally said to her sternly.
She knew that tone. It was a tone of finality. Her heart raced knowing she could not defy what he was going to say.
~
So, as she stood before the mansion of the Ferraris, Violet knew she had no other option.
She had to stay there for at least a year, or so her brother had said.
She had to stay in the home of the coldest member of the King Makers, Prince Vincenzo Klaus Ferrari, aka, the Ice Prince, aka the Rudest Prince, and his mother and siblings—none of whom she had ever met.
And, the swords drawn by the angels confirmed what else she saw—there would be forces of darkness at work.
Being there was going to be a battle.
——————————
Hola, wonderful family! It's been a long while. I hope you are all well. By GOD'S Grace, the second book is finally here!
It is now in the form of a series; with Princess Undercover being #1. I had initially wanted to take this "Spiritual" stance with the first.
Please, please, please, let me know your thoughts on it. This book covers areas and fields unbeknownst to me
The Last Time
The Last Time
The last time I heard her speak
She was sure of her words
"Tell my children I love them
You, my husband, already know"
The last time I saw her walk
She spun on her heel
Giving me a glimpse of what first attracted me
And what kept me under her spell
The last time we ate dinner
I gave her the night off
Her favorite was eggplant parmigiana
The fine wine, I chose, covered for my cooking errors
The last time we said good night
I dreamt of our future together
Awashed in laughter and love
Void of pain and sorrow
The last time I saw you
Before they closed the coffin
I recited our wedding vows
Knowing we would (someday) meet again
I Read Obituaries
I Read Obituaries
Why?
First, verification. Before the invent of social media, my grandmother told me an obituary was the best way to discreetly inquire as to whether someone who once passed into life had actually passed through life.
Second, to garner attention. Some people want others to make inquiries. Their need for attention covers the spectrum from covet to crave. The deceased, even in death, want people to know their life story. Perhaps this is ego. Perhaps something much more.
Third, to learn about someone known only casually. I would have wanted to know someone with an obituary stating they are survived by their 6 ex-wives, 22 children, 98 grandchildren, surviving 3 wars, 4 tours of duty, and a 40-year membership in a volunteer fire department.
Finally, as a sales tactic. An obituary lists the people who survived the deceased. It also describes the last residence of the deceased. Put 2 and 2 together. If I sold real estate, I know there will be a house for sale. If the deceased had many survivors, the estate (maybe even the survivors) will need a lawyer. Add tax planning, college savings, life insurance, home improvement, lawn care, vacations, etc. and the obituaries become the cornucopia of all new business leads.
Subtler than a billboard. Cheaper than a website. And all of the people listed, die in alphabetical order.
Simply amazing.
From the Corner Table
I'm sitting in the corner of Café Léon, a quaint spot that’s a stone's throw away from my apartment. The wooden floors creak underfoot. I'm supposed to be working on my novel, but the blank document on my laptop screen mocks me. Instead, I find myself lost in the steam swirling from my coffee cup, a tempest in a teacup, you could say.
Café Léon is my sanctuary, a place where I can disappear into the background and observe the world in its raw, unfiltered state. The barista, a young woman with tattoos crawling up her arms like ivy, knows my order by heart - a small cappuccino, no sugar, with a dash of cinnamon on top. It's the little things.
The café is buzzing with greater energy than normal today. The large table by the window is occupied by a bunch of college students, with their textbooks and laptops strewn around like pieces of a puzzle they're all trying to solve together. Lost in their own little world, a pair whispers softly to one another in the distant corner. Then there's me, the perennial bystander, taking everything in.
My phone vibrates, breaking the spell. It's a message from my editor, no doubt a gentle nudge about my looming deadline. My aim has been to write a book that encapsulates modern living, the interconnectivity of human experiences, and the beauty inherent in ordinary moments. But the truth is, I've been having trouble. Seeing life is one thing, but putting it into meaningful words is quite another.
I take a sip of my cappuccino and feel the comforting warmth from the cinnamon. I turn to look around and see that the source of inspiration I've been looking for is right in front of me. Every person at the café is a character with their own backstory, set of challenges, and victories, making it a microcosm of life itself.
With renewed purpose, I begin to type. In my piece, I portray the barista as a striving artist who finds comfort in the routine of brewing coffee. I write about the students, each carrying the weight of their dreams and fears. I write about the couple because, in a world that frequently appears dark, their love is a light of hope.
After several hours, the café begins to close. The barista wipes off the counter and smiles knowingly at me. "Inspiration struck?" she asks.
I return the smile and shut my laptop. "Something like that."
I exit Café Leon and the cold evening air welcomes me. The world appears slightly more appealing and less overwhelming. In my book, I've tried to portray a little bit of modern life, but more than anything, I've rediscovering the joy of writing. And that's more than enough for now.