The last thing I wrote.I object to rage.

My pen never left the page,so my words were never left alone.

A connection,A kinship of prose.

You cannot force words to intermingle with others,and there's no ands if or buts about it.Including in what i last wrote.

There was no questioning of what I wrote,it flowed like a stream not a raging ocean,from frustration.

I didnt drown in my words,hoping there was something that could pull me out of past temporary writers block situations.

It was natural,not forced.

Maybe it's not writers block,perhaps you are being held back from the words you shouldn't write at this time.

The words aren't ready to emerge,and make that connection with these present words.

They're probably awaiting to be reunited with future words that they already know.

Recently, I watched a film called Storyteller, based on a story written by Satyajit Ray. If you don’t know who Satyajit Ray is, you must look up his biography. Honestly speaking, I found the story to be very calm and gripping. For some, it may seem slow, but I liked it. After I finished it, I found myself stuck with the idea of a storyteller and a writer.

There is no single source for storytelling, it may come from imagination, experience, memories, people, and many more influences. But does that mean a good storyteller is also a good writer? I don’t think so.

Storytelling is a craft that holds the audience in the moment while the story is being told, but writing one comes with more challenges. There’s structure, flow, errors, and whatnot.

I’ve always been a storyteller, whether as a child, telling my mother stories to scare her, or in college, spinning erotic tales for a friend just because he said I couldn’t do erotica. But when my journey as a writer began, I realised that most of the stories we tell are not worth reading.

The craft demands discipline, dedication, and focus, which in itself is extremely challenging. A good writer can be a good storyteller, but it’s not necessary that a good storyteller is also a good writer.

So, here’s my advice to my fellow writers, start ghost-writing. Not only will it enhance your writing skills, but it will also generate some cash for your survival. And when you become more polished, it’s never too late to get on your own journey as a writer.

Life isn’t a race. If it were, there would be one starting point for all, but in reality, there isn’t. Some people who see you as competition will try to slow you down, break your spirit, steal your ideas, and challenge your skills. When they do, ask them for the best piece they have ever written and show them the best piece you have written. But before that, focus on your journey of becoming writer form a storyteller.

It snaked tighter when he shifted, sliding through the spaces he left open, winding between his ribs, curling where breath should have been. It moved like warmth at first, like something meant to hold him, coil after coil, snug and steady, a presence so familiar he mistook it for comfort.

But love, like this, tightens when you move wrong. When you reach for air.

It didn't strike. No fangs, no venom. Just the slow, patient squeeze. A constriction mistaken for embrace. A grip that convinced him he was safe, even as it stole the air from his lungs.

He let it happen. Thought it was supposed to feel this way. Thought love should press in, reshape him, make him smaller, make him fit inside the space it allowed. But when he tried to breathe deep, to stretch, to move beyond what it had decided he could be—

That was when it reminded him:

It had never been his to hold.

Some nights, in the quiet moments before sleep, he could feel it pressing down on him—an invisible weight, vast and nameless, a thing without form. It wasn’t the weight of worry, nor the heaviness of a burden carried from the day; it was something far more insidious. It was the weight of existence itself, a suffocating truth that had no clear edges, no escape, and no release. The world around him would grow thick, the air itself seeming to thicken, pushing against him from every angle, as if the very space he occupied had become too narrow to breathe in. Even the act of inhaling felt slower, more laborious, as though the gap between breaths was lengthening, dragging him into an inescapable eternity.

It was not a monster, lurking in the shadows of his mind, nor a ghost whispering his name from across the threshold of his thoughts. It was something subtler, something that did not require the presence of a form, but one that filled the silence between moments, creeping into the cracks of his awareness. This presence was not malevolent in a traditional sense. It had no fangs, no claws, no twisted face to strike fear into him. No, it was a quiet thing, a still thing. Yet it was the most terrifying thing he could imagine, because it wasn’t a thing at all. It was an absence, a lack of meaning, a truth that pressed down from all sides, reminding him that there was no exit from his own existence. Not tonight. Not ever.

Death, he realized, would never come. Not now. Not in the future. Not ever. It wasn’t that he feared death—it was that he realized it was no longer a possibility. He was caught in something worse: an endless existence, unmarked by beginnings or endings, untroubled by the merciful release of finality. Death had been promised to the living, to those who fought, who loved, who burned with desire. But what of those who refused to participate? What of the ones who drifted through life like a whisper, unnoticed, unimportant? For them, there was no peace. There was only an ever-tightening grip of time, an eternal stretch of moments that bound him tighter with each passing second.

The ache wasn’t in the promise of death; it was in the absence of it. It was a deeper kind of suffering—a slow, creeping suffocation of the soul. The world had no place for those who did not live fully, those who did not carve out a name for themselves in the chaos of existence. The truth began to settle over him like dust, invisible but everywhere, as pervasive and unyielding as the passage of time. He wasn’t alive. He wasn’t dead. He was something worse, something that didn’t even have the dignity of ending.

A loophole in the cosmic order. A thing too insignificant for erasure. Too unimportant to even be remembered. He had become a man left behind—not forgotten, exactly, but abandoned by the very force that should have taken him, leaving him to rot in the in-between, a lingering shadow of something once human.

But if he wasn’t dead, what was he? The question lingered, unanswered, as he tried to grasp at the thought. The gods couldn’t have simply left him, could they?

He thought of the old alchemists, hunched over their dusty tomes, their hands stained with ink and mercury, searching for the secret to eternal life. They spoke of potions, of blood sacrifices, of dark rituals performed under the pale light of a crescent moon. Perhaps they were wrong, he mused. What if the answer was simpler than they had ever imagined? What if the key to immortality wasn’t the drinking of poison or the sacrificing of lambs? What if the secret lay not in action, but in the passive refusal to live? The rejection of the world’s demands. The denial of participation. No blood, no bargains—just a quiet rot, a failure to live. That, he realized, might be the true curse. A life without death, but not because of some divine mercy. No, because the gods themselves had simply overlooked him.

The elders whispered about him in the dark corners of ancient temples, their voices low, thick with caution. They called him the Forgotten One, a name spoken with the same reverence one would reserve for a curse. He was not a ghost—not in the way the tragic and the lost were. He didn’t belong to the realm of the sorrowful, nor the doomed. No, he was something else, something far worse. He was a shadow in the shape of a man, lingering at the edges of existence, a footnote in the great narrative of life and death, a thing that was neither. They said he had once been a man, flesh and blood like any other. But he had moved through the world like a whisper, unseen, unheard. His footsteps left no mark, his words passed unnoticed. He did not fight, nor love, nor hate. He had neither ambition nor despair. He simply existed, a passive participant in a world that demanded more than mere existence.

And when the Reaper came to collect the souls of the dead, it had missed him. He had been overlooked. Forgotten. Left behind in the cosmic shuffle of things.

So now he lingered.

The world had its laws, its silent, cruel laws. Live fully, love deeply, hurt deeply, rage against the tides, and you will earn your exit. But what of those who did none of those things? What of those who slipped through life unnoticed, who never burned with desire, who never sought to leave a mark on the world? Those who never lived, never fought, never loved, never hated—what of them?

They were not granted the mercy of endings.

The truth continued to weigh on him, pressing down like the slow accumulation of dust. He wasn’t alive, he wasn’t dead. He was simply forgotten—too unimportant to be remembered, too insignificant to be erased. A man caught in the space between, a soul left to rot without ever having had the chance to live. It was a terrible kind of purgatory—one without even the faintest hope of redemption.

And so, he waited. He waited in that vast, empty place where all the forgotten things rotted away. He waited in the space where the gods themselves did not dare to look, where even the force of existence itself dared not venture.

He waited in silence, with nothing but time stretching endlessly before him.

In our tenth broadcast on Prose. Radio, we dive into forms colliding to form a formidable form from the form formidable first. Thank the coffee for that one. But, on the show, Last leads first, and then a doctor of an exact mark of punctuation closes the broadcast with a piece leaving you lighter, yet heavier. You'll have to hear it.

Always loved sound influencing the page, or maybe just moving it along differently.

Here's the link to the show, and we'll leave the pieces and writers in the comments.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QCJQl8jc-k&t=66s

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

"Tell me why, I do like Mondays, tell me why..." One, the Monday video, and two, written words from the world of Prose., and from there the reasons stem in mirrored roots. Let's jump in.

As we're sure you've noticed, there are no longer timestamps on posts or comments. We go into our reasons on Prose. Radio, which we'll link below, where, more importantly, two writers are featured, fireside: A short poem by one of our legends, and a longer, dream-like piece by a writer with all the letters in piece in the username, come to realize it.

Here's the link to the feature on Prose. Radio.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mY9NJEXYHs

And we'll link the pieces and the authors in the comments below this very post.

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

O'Keefe saw it, knew it

The Original

Pornography

The way she painted

pleading, begging petals

exposed, eager, yearning

to be seen by different eyes

to have their texture felt by

shifting fingertips

Strokes--

--for other strokes

Waves thrust on rock, the sun

asks seeds to burst, coaxes stem

and thirsting leaves from dirt

Precious nectars drained and

turned to gold, sticky sweet,

leaving alchemy wherever

it may fall

Spores explode, waterfalls rush

and slowly melt into gentle pools

that hide secrets in their grottos,

roots search quiet, determined for

warm, inviting earth, the clouds part

and drench the bold

The ageless coquette, she spreads

and releases, takes and gives,

dominant, yielding, known

to all, possessed by none,

Coy seductress, winking vixen,

star of The Original

Pornography

We see it, know it

I know my gender is weird to you.

I know you can't understand. Or maybe you can.

If you can, great. If you can't, damn.

Xenogenders.

Are so me.

I have always felt that I can't fit into labels that are so simple like "girl" "boy" "enby" "demigirl" whatever whatever whatever. They don't speak me.

The freedom in xenogenders... Are me.

I have always seen my gender as a person.

As if they are a mirror image of what I want to be.

So when xenogenders came to life, I found... Peace. With my identity.

As I dove into 2020 Tumblr, I found me.

I found who I am.

I don't care if you think I'm weird.

I don't care if you won't use neopronouns on me.

It's me.

It's always been me.

I found what defined me.

I found it, after so long.

This euphoria is so addicting.