Rest in peace, Shane.
The world lost a shining and inimitable talent yesterday. Mr. Love paid a beautiful tribute, and we wanted to express it here, and on the channel, along with our condolences to Mr. MacGowan's family, friends, and fans. Go easy, Shane, and thank you for your years here.
A Reverence to the Sea
The chanceless wind, dies on the sea-
So mellowly, it could not breathe-
Its absence - it was the "red green
Pastures" of Mallarme - the sea-green
Gold of distant greeneries, folding
So intricately beyond all abstraction
Leaving breath or soul no room for
Traction- the waves they breathed
The collective essence of foam and
Foment, folded in their intercollected
Action- the sea's connected passion
As each spire in its twirl - searching
Out the other, like fir trees slowly whirl
Merging their secret emerald worlds
In their mountain flights- synaptic - with
The azure of the heights, folding
Color unto color- as if no transition
Had transpired, for so intimately
Had tucked the fibers of the sea
The secrets of inner melding; the
Inner secret, of color into other
Color illusionarily bending knowing--
That all earth is rock, and that rock
To molten fire secretly is melting
That if an artist could harness the
Inner color nested in your hidden
Deep- free them from the haunted
Green, and the blue-gris endless sleep,
And paint them upon the mountain-
The skies it would confound them
And they would burst backwards
Back onto its rock, drip away,
Not able to handle the separation
From Gaia's clay for you have
Always held the secret of the
Matchless blue, all other paint
Becoming just the scansion
Of the residue
I've always been a fan of old school detective culture, the voice, the dreary yet hopeful-cynic vibe, the look upon the world they have. So, when I ran actoss this story on Prose., I had to feature it. The way it was told, almost noir-ish, clean-cut, which was different for me, on all levels. but also adding to the charm and overall strength of the story, struck me in a way that called me back to the black and white classics.
Written by a writer new to us, and, to said writer, whose name I'll have in the first tag in the comments below, thank you for the piece here. I haven't yet browsed all your posts, but I hope the narration is alright with you. I had fun with your detective.
The writing on Prose. is to a point where I can open it at any given moment now, and find something that pulls me in without having to even scroll.
Here's the channel link to the story.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Fool Me 300 Times, Shame On Me
But I love you
No, you don’t, James. I don’t think you ever did.
Well that’s just bullshit. I did everything for you. I quit school for you and moved back home so that I’d be there for you when you graduated and we could come back to school together the next year. I lived with my drunken grandmother after my folks left. I did that for you. Shit would have been much easier for me had I just stayed.
And you’ve taken every opportunity to remind me how I ruined your life, although I never once asked you to do that.
Jenny. I-I can’t live without you. I won’t make it. I need you. Jesus. What do I have to do? Do you want me to get on the floor and beg? Get down on my knees and beg you?
Not at all. I just want us to be apart, James.
Jenny, please. Don’t. We can make this work.
How many times have we had this exact same conversation? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me 300 times, shame on me, I suppose. For myself and my self respect, I can’t listen to you anymore. You’re a liar. You’re just a liar.
What have I lied about?
I have to go.
No wait. Don’t get up. Tell me, Jenny. What did I lie about? Christ. What did I lie about?
Just a bit of advice. Next time you go out with the guys, logout of your accounts, alright?
Gravel crunches under my tires and I look for that Jeep in the parking lot. I know that must be you hunched over at a picnic table down by the still water; you never learned to properly dress for the cold. I sit silently, keys in hand, for one long minute. You flip the pages of a heavy book, and if I know you at all, it’s a Bible. If you would make some recognizable gesture, I’d be sure.
The trout pond, at 5:15. My throat is raw, and my face swollen, but no tears come now. You said you’d be there early, just like our second or third date, when you were falling in love with a woman for the first time. Back then, I was always tired and always lonely, but fiercely optimistic. My wrists were thin as a child’s, and I didn’t know then the difference between sickness and sin— I told you that I had the same sickness as your mother, who never loved you.
“Well, I think you could use somebody.”
“I think we both could.”
It was May the 20th, and we didn’t get around to fishing that day. All summer, we mastered the art of getting lost, your wheezing laugh giving me wrong directions on Route 122. Brain fog was something endearing.
Now it is winter, same time and place, and already dusk. Leaving the safety of my car and making my way down to where you sit by the pond feels like tying myself to the whipping post. I thought closure was what I wanted. Since I’ve already grieved, I can’t turn down your unmarked road anymore. That much, I understand.
Coming to meet you is like visiting a grave. But when I approach, your cheeks are rosy, and your hair is dark and wet on your brow. You look less like a ghost than I’d hoped.
“How are you,” I venture. I know full well you’re frayed as I am.
“I’m good,” your hand over that Bible like an oath.
“Where we left off felt very final.”
“I feel encouraged, though,” you breathe.
I wait for your explanation. After the pain I’ve caused you, the least I can do is shut up and try to understand.
“You know, when I asked you to pray about it, did you?” I nod, because I really did.
Your eyes are glassy. “…because before I even got to Josh’s house yesterday, Russ of all people texted me out of the blue. He said, ‘Marriage is too important to let someone’s little sin stand in the way.’ I told him, ‘You don’t know how big this is.’”
You look at me expectantly. Gratitude trembles my lips before I can speak it.
We’re not married, but I get your point. This was your God giving you a sign that it’s okay for you to change your mind. And from the way your mouth full of braces is smiling at me again, a sign is all you needed.
Drink of the Gods
The solute awaits the missing solvent
Inchoate alchemy yet to mix
And create the solution
The solution ensnares missing charges
That attracts right stuff
For the stuffing stirring in the cauldron
The cauldron effervesces
Each blob of bubbled plasma'nauts
Burst into the airs of possibility
The possibility of solution as the fruit
Come to fruition
And life just pours out
It just pours out when it rains
Open your mouth
And taste life's sweet nectar
Sweet nectar nourishment
Take not cover from the rain
That provides the solution
The solution is the otherwise immiscible
But collects ready-for-child-like giddiness
That embraces life splashing in puddles
This wonderful prompt helped me write a much longer story than I planned, for this challenge. Below is a summary of the entire story which you can read on my blog (https://mrericmontgomery.com/2023/11/28/rainfall-reaper/).
In Evershade, a town shrouded in mystery and known for its ominous rain, journalist Cassie explores the local legend of a sinister figure that appears only during rainfall. Residents fear the rain, believing it brings forth a shadowy, malevolent entity. Cassie, intrigued by the macabre, ventures out in a storm and encounters a grotesque, shape-shifting figure dancing in the rain, its eyes gleaming maliciously. Terrified, she flees, using her camera flash to escape the pursuing creature. Her subsequent article on Evershade, detailing her harrowing experience with the rain-born horror, gains fame but is mostly regarded as fiction. Cassie remains aware of the creature's existence, always cautious of the rain. Evershade continues to be haunted, not by the dead, but by a bizarre, rain-associated anomaly, perpetuating the warning, “It only comes out when it rains.”
Sung night eccentric
tender evergreen nectar
Spread sentient liquor,
sweat of eve, revival infested.
anger swims like
Sea dragons in abyssal
canyons; burdens comet onyx
sealed, orange volcanic bliss
Covet our ghostly spirits
drifting unfinished countertops
nod at her, round up
Chivalry and spit wicked
whistle, sentient liquor
storms valhallan guts
Awake in afterlife;
unconscious fights my
Caustic mind regrets,
fight time with swamped
Dimes, lost time and sickened
Seconds, lost to Beelzebub:
God reunites the visage, drink
to disunite the feelin'..
This one’s about that oceans waves.
How you are so much like the ocean. Constant stirring now moments of rest, you crash on my like the sands on a beach pulling my deeper and deeper into your current. As much as you would like to be like a lake calm and silent you can’t be. Not with how you were raised, not how you go about life. I’m trying to be the levy that holds you at bay and secure your waves but you’re constantly crashing into me making no effort other than to destroy my concrete that’s trying to ground you. Deeper and deeper , rougher and rougher do your waves get when I’m trying to save you. From your own storms forming within the heart of your own ocean I can’t save you. You aren’t willing to be saved. You’d rather muster up more power over me with low blows of wind and pain. Hitting me on all my fronts I can’t be saved. Why do we continue this “love” if you arent willing to level your waves with me. This love isn’t what I signed up for. This isn’t who I met two years ago. At what point do I walk to the shore and go inland in search of my calm lake? You’re eyes only see red when I try to stop the push and pull of your vast ways. There isn’t grace, there isn’t love. Just deeper and deeper pain.
love is supposed to be calm and warming all I feel is cold weight.