Every year on their anniversary he would buy flowers;

A dozen begonias, her favorite.

He would book a table at the same restaurant;

Italian, small and quiet.

Year after year it was the same perfect night.

He would arrive first, flowers in hand;

"Jones table for two".

A bottle of Barolo and the chicken piccata;

Tiramisu for dessert.

Year after year they remembered.

On the 50th anniversary he arrived, flowers in hand.

"Hello Mr. Jones, table for two?"

He smiled sadly, and pulled from his satchel;

A framed portrait of his wife.

"Jones, table for one".

My grandpa passed away from cancer when my mom was only 19, and her 8 younger siblings were between the ages of 17-2. My grandma was often asked how she could make it alone. She always replied, "I'm not alone; I have my children and God with me. With God, all things are possible."

And she was right; God made a way for her and her children. Times were hard sometimes, but working together, they were able to overcome everything.

Nearly 30 years later, Grandma still has God with her, and now she has 9 children and their spouses, and 35 grandchildren (with more on the way) and 2 great grandchildren to walk by her side.

My Grandma is a cheerful, hardworking, wonderful woman who is an inspiration to all around her.

Sometimes, near their wedding anniversary or my grandpa's birthday, I see her eyes and know that she's missing him. But at these moments we gather closer and stronger together to support and comfort her.

Congratulations thisisit! What a great write and a thoughtful nod to Sylvia Plath. I really loved that you touched on the little-recognized side effect from simply having too much (good) to choose from: decision paralysis. There is also that unique type of dread that can arise in the midst of it all. You summed it up perfectly with this line:

“There's no way to enjoy all the figs.

And if you don't choose a fig, it drops to the ground and rots. It's too late.”

*chef’s kiss*

Honorable mention entries are from the suspenseful amandabjaworski, the aquatically delightful pretty_archaic, the heartfelt ErJo1122, and the ever-scandalous Ferryman.

Thanks again for everyone’s thoughtful entries; you all continually amaze me with your talent! I hope to see you again for my next challenge <3

No-thing new was ever undisturbed

wringing from the sole to soul

the cold cradle rocking,

the papers say it's hard to let go...

of the hysterical,

known and unknown.

Comfort/Disturb me challenge @RosemarieThorn

Hello, Brilliant, Beautiful Writers:

A piece by one of our masterminds and maestros waits below the message in this letter to you all, after a sentence that says, "Here's the link."

Here's the link.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SO0-38LJTEM

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

"We have forgotten how to be good guests-- how to walk lightly on the Earth as its other creatures do."

~ Barbara Mary Ward

Vienna, Austria

May 14th, 2005

"Thank you, Mercy." The ageing man responded to the nurse. The falter in his voice had still not recovered from the peculiar events of the previous month. What had brought around the unexpected transformation in the great and proud Mr Aldrich Hunter was unknown to most. How could such an arrogant, power-hungry beast be so humbled over a few mysterious days? But everyone knew it had something to do with Nixie. Phoenix Landskein. His bombshell of a second wife. Unlike Mr Hunter and his son, she never returned to the mainframe, and no one knew where she was.

Neo Hunter took the chair on the other end of the fine dining. The table was older than the portrait of the Mona Lisa, spanning nine feet and carved with fine, intricate details from head to toe. The delicacies were not abundant enough to cure the hunger of an entire state anymore. Only what was required was served, and nothing went to waste. Neo ensured that was the case, and no one had any objections to raise. Perhaps it all had to do with the generational transfer of authority from father to son, most people believed.

But Neo Hunter knew better. Neo Hunter knew firsthand what had brought around the radical transformations in the Hunter household. It had everything to do with Mrs Phoenix Landskein, his enigmatic stepmother.

Sighișoara, Romania

April 9th, 2005

That bitch. Neo Hunter rolled down the haystacks piled so high atop one another. How could she? Neo always knew Phoenix Landskein was up to something, but everyone refused to believe him. But with hands tied against a coir rope and rashes of his allergy presenting themselves on his pale skin, Neo knew that was his best chance to prove his suspicions right before everyone. Phoenix Landskein was a gold-digger bitch.

Vision yet to be stable, Neo raised himself to stand, gaining support from his elbows and knees. The whole world spun around him, dizziness almost throwing him into another long daze. But Neo was desperate not to lose consciousness once again-- he slammed himself against the wall in the hopes of steadying his composure, his head held tight between his arms to squish some sense into him. Neo felt his throat ache and his entire frame sweating, leaving his body devoid of moisture. He needed water. Lots of it. Quick breaths. Long breaths.

The barn doors opened with a rasp to reveal before him a courtyard left unchecked for years prior. Ferns and rust had reclaimed all the fences and adornments once white and lustrous. Hints of a winding path leading to an old estate hid beneath the extensive flora consuming whatever men built over its natural state. The tall stone manor at the end of the road-- made almost entirely of stone and iron-- was all too familiar for Neo Hunter. It was his childhood home.

July 1986

The nights were the hardest. So were the days, but the newfound solace of jabbering strangers at school offered Neo an odd comfort. Was there a name for the fear of dinners? But it wasn't the food that scared him. It was what came with it. The people. His family. Every time he heard his name being hollered from downstairs, every step he took towards the dining room-- it all took an act of courage.

Gripping silences. Heaviness in the air. Neo often attempted to not let his cutlery touch the dishes, to not produce the slightest noise so that his parents wouldn't notice his presence. He only left the table once his mom disappeared into the kitchen and his dad to the porch.

But some days, even his silence could not save the tumults which were to befall. Sometimes, it was a hair in the soup, sometimes a tad amount of extra salt in the bacon. But his father's outrage always shook the entire cabin to the core.

Neo never looked at his father when that happened. He looked at his mom. How her eyes were shut, and a lonesome tear caressed her folds. How her palms clutched the dress she was wearing. Before long, when his father disappeared into another room, Gaia always asked Neo to go to his room. And there, he would sleep to the muffled cries of his mother in the place of lullabies, pillows tight against his eyes and ears to tuck himself into dreams where everything was alright.

April 9th, 2005

The rashes grew bigger and redder with the passage of every minute. Unable to find anything sharp and steady, Neo headed to their old kitchen, hoping to find something to free himself. But it was empty. Hollow. The fire and aura had long settled into smoke and filth. That was when he heard a cry from the floor above. Father. Rushing atop the stairs, Neo shouldered open the doors to their old bedroom.

"Finally. You're awake." Phoenix Landskein was a woman of stature, or at least she possessed the charm of someone alike. There she stood, at 5"7', holding what seemed to be a leash made of the creepers from the grounds-- stains of red embellishing the light green of the stem. His father lay on his chest atop the busted cot, his bare back adorned with streaks of blood as he struggled to flee his chains. His restraints were not coir, but cold iron, leaving him zero chance of escaping the onslaught.

Phoenix walked up to Neo, stopping only a few inches away. Neo wanted to back up, but the notion of her kicking him down from the foyer persuaded him to keep his ground. The whip safe in her right hand, Phoenix stared right into his soul-- her green eyes threatening to claw out his deepest fears. In the end, a smile. She took his arms and twined her palms around the coir ropes, only for the yarns to magically untangle themselves, freeing him from its clutch. She passed the leash to his hands, whispering to his ear, "Careful."

As Phoenix strolled down the stairs, Neo ran to his father to help him escape. He needed something to break the chains apart, and soon upon his search, he found all the utensils from their old kitchen on the bedside table, spread neatly on a wet towel. And while picking up the hammer, Neo noticed how his rashes had faded into his skin, no longer inducing an allergic reaction.

But before he could carry his father out somewhere safe, Neo felt the temperature rising around him. Fire. He walked faster only to nearly slip over the stairs, losing the clutch over his father. His rather plump figure tumbled down the stairs, and for a moment, Neo was afraid he had marked the end of his father's life. But the day had other intentions, not a life being lost, though the stone-cold manor collapsed in on itself, leaving no reminiscence of the world Neo once knew.

Vienna, Austria

May 14th, 2005

Putting his father to sleep and piling a heavy blanket atop his fragile frame, Neo walked out of his bedroom to the cold verandah. Phoenix Landskein was never found after that day. Even the most capable investigation teams couldn't gather a clue as to where she was. And the non-cooperative silence of the father and son only led to more and more suspicions and never a proper answer.

But whenever Neo brought around a change in his father's allocation of wealth for the better, the trees and animals seemed to bow before him. The sun seemed to shine brighter on the days' Neo had felt his best. And on the days when Neo felt despair, the clouds taught him to let his tears fall. And whenever he reminisced about his mother, he felt the air tug him into a warm embrace. The leash no longer had the stains of blood, but it bloomed and flowered in the courtyard of their home.

Neo knew what had happened to the Hunter household. It had everything to do with Mrs Phoenix Landskein.

#####

I struggled with writer's block for a long while in between, and I'm sure a lot of people out there has the same issue. I'd never been much of a pantser and had always leaned to more plotting tendencies, and thus reading upon and listening to a lot of storytelling theory and experimenting with a lot of techniques, I'm figuring out an outline to help me with the task. It's not rigid, it's arbitrary, it's constantly changing, and it helps me gain more insight into the stories I want to write, and helps me explore what all I could incorporate into them. And I thought this could be somewhat helpful for someone out there too (: So, I'm sharing the outline I used to write this story here, and... hope it helps!

Outline: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1l0Rc2EuvqCKDFnmw-Z6wv5yXSWdZTDa9aqVUS51F28o/edit?usp=sharing

*****

Shoutout

[cuz it feels like a wholesome thing to do (: Also, these will be some of Prose's best, so keep an eye on them (:]

The Evil Series by @Danceinsilence

The Evil Series by @Danceinsilence feels like an episodic thriller with its division into separate books and parts. Featuring a team of cops with the primary focus on a divorced female law enforcement officer and single mother (with the most adorable son), Janis Baker, this series really justifies its title throughout its course... Trust me, no matter how humane a person you think you are, you'd root for some of these characters to suffer the most-brutish-deaths possible... The evil is constantly on the rise and the saviors are on a never-ending effort to keep the streets clean. Sacrifices, serial killers, assassins-- An over-arching threat, loved ones to protect-- this series will not give you a break! Do check it out!

*****

Instagram: (Um, I'll edit that in later...)

The world around me comes into view, but I must still be dreaming. My floral print comforter replaced by…hay? That can’t be right. Except it is. I close my eyes shut and open them again slowly, still here. I can remember strong hands wrapping around me and throwing me, hard. A piece of cloth covering my eyes and a pinch in my arm, they must have injected me with something. But who’s they. Regardless, I seem to be alone now so time to get my bearings. Mental check, my arms and legs are very bruised and there’s a crick in my neck, but nothing seems broken. Ok, good. Then the panic sets in…my mom.

We had just finished dinner at this small Italian restaurant near the house and were walking home. Me, my mom, and Richard, my stepdad. Stepdad seems odd since they’ve only been married about two weeks, but they had been dating about a year and it was expected. Just then, my stomach drops and the world around me feels blurry. I can recall Richard walking towards me when I was grabbed and thrown into a car. An SUV. A black SUV. I try to remember the little details keeping my mind on when I get home, hopeful that they can be used later to find the people responsible. I remember screaming help to him before one of the hands was covering my mouth, but he didn’t help. At first I was scared that he would also be grabbed, I mean who were these people? But he wasn’t grabbed. In fact, he was calm. If I’m not mistaken I think I remember a smirk.

But I must be remembering wrong. Richard works in finance, or insurance…or…banking, honestly I never paid too close attention, but he had a boring job. Definitely not someone that would have access to… thugs. It’s seriously the only word I can think of, and I know it sounds ridiculous, like I’m in some old-timey crime movie, but the point stands. Richard is a 9-5, suit wearing, family man with IBS. There’s no way he’s responsible for this. Whatever this is. Yet the image of him walking towards me with that creepy look on his face stays plastered in my mind.

I try to stand, slowly. Despite my many bruises, I manage to get to my feet and move around pretty easily. I think about the first time I tried to ski. I was with my friend Matt who had been going forever and I may have smudged the truth about my skiing knowledge. Long story short I rolled all the way down the mountain and was bruised from my chest down. When I hopped right up the instructor at the bottom had warned me that although it doesn’t hurt now, it will tomorrow. As I look down at my black and blue arms I know tomorrow will bring much more pain. It’s weird what you think about when you’re in traumatic situations.

I look around. There’s a rake-looking tool and some wooden stick up against the wall, and hay, lots of hay. A barn? I don’t know if I’ve ever actually been in a barn. Maybe when I was little and mom took me to some sort of pumpkin patch. Mom. I try to remember where she was when we walked outside, she must have been right next to me, right? Did someone grab her? I feel sick.

I’m on the verge of hyperventilating when I hear a moan coming from outside. A horse, or a pig? I truly know nothing about barn life. The moan again. This time it’s more distinct, a woman. Mom! I run outside. She’s lying on her side and there’s a nasty gash in her forehead. I drop down next to her. “He lied.” Suddenly I can’t find words, but apparently she can. “He said that we would never be involved, but he lied.” I swallow. “Richard? Involved in what?” There’s tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t let them fall. “I got us away. We should be safe here for now, but they’re going to come looking for us." Who, who is coming! I want to shout, but she is drifting back to sleep. I have no idea what's going on and my mom is in some sort of psychotic daze. There's a house next to the barn and I see a light on inside. On one hand I could be walking to doom, but on the other, if I don't get her a cold rag or some water soon...I walk up the porch steps and knock on the door.

From my peep hole in Mamma's belly button I could see the ocean of light within a dark circular surround. I'd like to think she has her bikini on and we're going to the beach. The one with the hillside and the swings and the thrilling slide. I love the homey sound of the water, the sifting gold of the sand, the windblown seagulls... Through this periscopic lens I can catch glimpses, every day, of my future, that which I am destined to forget. It usually happens at dawn and at twilight. The curtain lifts, and my peak into the outside involves mostly a view to and from the bed. It's dim and quiet, much like the womb I'm in. Except when we go into the water! Then my little room becomes an apartment. But today is different. The pattern is off. this is not the locker room. There's a man all dressed up in white. Ugh I hope that's not Dadda.  I'm starting to feel really lightheaded. It's scalding bright, and I hear clicking noises to the left and right, some clanking, and a persistent monotoned dialogue of voices I don't recognize. Whatever's coming through the placenta tastes bitter and I'm getting drowsy. I'm going to take a nap. Then I think I'll practice swimming again with Mamma when she gets up.

05.31.2023

Newly married Mother & Significant Other Barn Burning CotW CCXXVI

@Prose (Thanks Amanda B. Jaworski for the Challenge Prompt!)

Damn, I'm sore. At least I'm not sticky, broke AND confused, as the Diceman once said. Two out of three ain't bad, as Meatloaf said. At least not as bad as it could have been.

Where the hell am I? I look around in the twilight haze that surrounds me. The smell of hay and manure threatens to induce a sneeze, if not a gag. Nausea overcomes me as I try to orient myself.

A buzzing dominates my ears, but I cannot tell if the origin is within or without my head. I wonder if it even really matters. Immediately I feel I am alone, but I can sense others around me. I am not sure exactly how I do, but a presence -- nay, several presences -- make themselves known nearby.

A cold, wet against my bare arm causes me to recoil in reflex. A bleat follows. whew! Just a lamb. Nothing but a lamb.

Better than a lion.

More bleats answer the initial one. A cacophony of wool. I impress myself with the phrasing. What a metaphor.

My eyes eventually adjust to the dim light. I am not precisely sure where I am, but in the general sense I get it. I am in a barn.

The question is, whose?

Did she follow the directions as I had given them? Was I right in trusting her? Come to think of it, was I right in trusting myself?

A chuckle erupted from my lips, and the lamb nuzzled against me a second time. "Sorry," I said. "I don't have a treat for you."

Still, I scratched it behind the ear. It stood still in appreciation of the attention. I got it. I might do the same, depending on who was doing the scratching. If it was Gina, then definitely.

I attempted to stand up, but vertigo prevented it, at least for now.

Memories came. Sporadically, and in flashes, but there they were, nonetheless.

An image of a truck, being led to it, a blindfold presented to me. However, no panic accompanied the memories.

That's when I remembered a crucial piece of information regarding my abduction.

I was in on it.

In fact, I orchestrated it. With my stepmother.

Why does this sound like it might be the play by play of a porn scenario? Because it kind of IS like one?

My father -- bastard that he is (was?) -- married Gina recently.

Only, I could see the looks that Gina gave me, the lilt in her voice, the casual points of contact, her hand against my arm. Her body against mine as she squeezed by to get to the curtains to adjust them. Her breath clos to my mouth during the embraces of greeting and departing.

I sensed an attraction almost immediately. Well, by that I mean beside the one that I felt FOR her.

Reciprocity.

Such a great word. In sound, yes, but even better in deed or action.

Gina and I had enjoyed a near-instant connection from the first time I met her. However, things were difficult. After all, she was dating my father.

And I wanted to be a good daughter.

At least, I wanted to for all appearances. I could give fuck-all for being a good daughter for real.

After all, my father was a real piece of work. He was all smiles and good cheer whenever the public was involved, or when he met someone new. However, when it came to life at home, guy was an absolute asshole.

Wait. That's not harsh enough.

He was a fucking asshole, and there is no fate in Hell that is too cruel for him to suffer.

You see, death follows him, or is at least in part caused by him.

How I'm not dead yet is still unclear to me. Sincerely.

I have thought about my own death too many times to count. I even tried to effect it a couple times.

Okay. Five times. But who's counting?

He is. Bastard. He even uses it against me. Says it is reason to keep trying to make me right. Says he needs to fix me.

Fucker.

Actually, apropos word.

It makes me hate my older sister Harriet even more.

You see, she got out, despite all the bullshit. She escaped.

And here I am, still enduring the pain, the heartache, the headache, the abuse, the torture.

At least, until now, if Gina did what she was supposed to do.

I'm alive, so that's a good sign (is it?).

And I'm surrounded by barnyard animals. No blindfold any more. (It had to look good and convincing, in case the police got suspicious).

Other barnyard noises made themselves present. A little clucking, the grunt of a pig, the shuffling of hooves. Knowing that the bastard should be getting his due make the smell of intermingled manure all the more enjoyable.

Panic comes over me again. Am I safe?

Then another memory rises to the surface.

My father and I were abducted together. Again, to make sure that no suspicion went in the wrong direction. And Gina with a nasty scar across her forehead.

A sigh of relief.

Gina's image in my mind brought a sense of peace. She always has that effect on me.

I think she saw the way things were going to be earlier in the relationship than most of my father's girlfriends have over the years. It was obviously not apparent to me when I was younger, but now that I am in my final year of college, a lot that used to be obscured is now salient.

For years I thought I was the only one. Harriet clued me in otherwise, about a week before she left, I think for Europe. Maybe Canada.

There were times I still loved Harriet. Then there were the times I hated her. For leaving me with my father. Who I hated even more. Actually, it is inconceivable for me to consider hating anyone more than my father.

I refuse to call him Dad. or Father. There is no way that a) he was anything more than a sperm donor, and b) he deserved a capital letter associated with his name. Unless it was Asshole.

As an aside, I wish there were a word that captured exactly what he is/was, besides Asshole. If you have a suggestion, I am all ears. Cumstain? Blight? Pestilence? Abomination?

To say I hate him does the word hate a gross injustice.

And gross is an apt (though not apt enough) word to describe my father.

Anyway, I digress, and that does Gina a disservice.

Gina is one stand-up gal. (Who the fuck came up with gal, and thought it was an acceptable word?)

And, while I am on the subject of Gina, she is beautiful. Nay -- she is Hot. Sexy. Righteous. Girl-boss. Gas. Fire.

You name it. Whatever positive sobriquet you can assign to her, it will fall short (FAR short) of her actual awesomeness.

It was like she could sense my quandary, my predicament, my...impossible situation. Maybe she was enamored with my father in the beginning, but I think it became clear to Gina what sort of man my father was. (I hope it is was instead of is).

So a plan was put into action.

However, it required that both Gina and I would be above suspicion.

Some time into the relationship that Gina and my father engaged in, it became obvious that my father had not, nor would he ever, change his ways.

In other words, his desires for Gina at times manifested toward me.

There. I said it, after a fashion.

My father sought to dominate all the women in his life. My mother. My sister. Me. Now Gina.

Gina saw this early on, and in so doing became my savior.

Sometimes I wondered if my love for Gina was entirely about her, or if it was more about my rejection of my father, and in consequence my eschewal of all men.

Did it matter? Especially if it was about getting away from my father?

Hugs from Gina were the best. Not just the best I ever had, but the best I could imagine.

They elicited a desire in me I did not know I possessed.

My father convinced me that there was no other man who could love me the way that he did. Really what that did was convince me that I did not want the love of any man if the way he displayed it was indicative of what it meant.

Asshole.

Then there was Gina. And the looks she gave me. Were they maternal? Or were they something more? After all, she was only five years older than me, and beautiful as fuck. Hell, she was sexy as fuck.

I had never felt such desire in my life.

I'd like to think it was not just about escaping my father. But if I had to escape him, and I was born by him, then what about someone who had chosen to be with him? I can only imagine the shame and self-betrayal of one who fell for the charms and ministrations of my father the bastard.

So there I was (am?), with the animals around me, the smells of the barn around me, the twilight turning into dawn, which meant that clarity would ensure. Is it symbolic or literal?

Who gives a shit?

As long as it is a step in the right direction, it does not matter one fucking iota anything else.

So there I was. An abductee. My stepmother with a wound on her head. My sister in another time zone. My father hopefully dead. The lamb oblivious to all of it.

My only hope is this:

Whatever fate my father experienced, I pray that it was filled with as much pain and suffering as possible.

And I hope it continues for all eternity.