The dumpster burst behind me, the heat wave close on my back, fiery wings wrapping around me. Chunks of flaming garbage streamed past, falling stars in the black alley.

I gripped the pistol tighter until my fingers stung with pins and needles as I ran. Out of the alleyway, back into the madness. The burning cars and store fronts, blazing cocktails rupturing and spewing glass and flame like urban phoenixes. Riot police and mob yelling, gunfire cracking from all around. Yellow, orange, and red, dancing against swaths of black and gray, angry color scorching the innocent night.

“Hey!” a masked man yelled ahead of me, gesturing with a handgun in my direction.

I didn’t hesitate, raising my own weapon and pressing the trigger twice. He dropped, screaming, pistol slipping from his grasp and clattering on the asphalt.

Handy. I snatched up the gun and sprinted on, past the box truck laying on its side in the middle of the road, cargo strewn out behind it like entrails. Fire leaped from its charred sides, reaching toward anything near it. I tucked the new weapon into my waistband as I dodged a woman grasping for me from a small group of rioters exiting through the broken window of a storefront. Black masks obscured the lower half of their faces, eyes burning with fury, drunk on the chaos and anarchy of the moment.

The mask obscuring my own face was beginning to strangle my breath. I wanted so badly to tear it off, to let myself breathe. But that would have been a terrible idea. I can’t be recognizable. You’re eye color is recognizable enough—don’t put your face out their too.

I kept on, making sure to concentrate on staying light on my feet. Just a little farther, and I’ll be out of this mess. Though suppressed at the moment, fear hid in the back of my mind, whispering that I wouldn’t make it.

I ducked into a side street, darkness hungrily swallowing up the dancing light of a thousand fires burning on the main road. A man lay propped against a brick wall on one side of the narrow road. Blood streamed down the side of his head. His eyes, yellowed and bloodshot, followed me as I dashed past. I didn’t have time to avoid puddles. Water splashed over my shoes, soaking my feet and shins.

Yellow-orange erupted in front of me as I ran from the side street, glass and heat bursting away from where the gasoline-filled jar had shattered. Bullets whizzed past my head, striking the brick wall beside me.

“Get him!” the men called, popping off more rounds in my direction.

I dove and rolled. Hard, warm, gritty ground scraped against my bare arms. Bringing my gun around as rounds cracked by, I fired. Once, twice, three times, five times. Three men dropped, yelling and clutching their wounds. The fourth, armed with a crowbar, ran the opposite direction in terror.

They’re gonna leave without you. Squeezing the thought back into my stomach, I shoved myself to my feet and hurried on. Left, right, left, right, straight for three blocks. Past shattered glass, bodies writhing on the streets and sidewalks. Past flaming vehicles with their waves of heat, roving gangs of degenerate scum, and police lines firing tear gas into mobs a hundred times their number.

There it was, a few hundred yards away. Rising above the smoking city, the burned-out cathedral’s blackened steeple stabbed into the smoky, red-orange sky. Above it hovered Aegis’ APC, blue jets aimed downward, guns firing into the streets beneath. Three drones whizzed from her angular sides as I got closer.

Bang!

Blood and asphalt sprayed from the bullet’s impact, dropping the man jumping from an alley at me. The drone turned, weapon firing another round at a man, clutching a rifle, rushing down the street at me. Empty shells clattered on the pavement, dropping from the drones as they fired again and again on nearby rioters.

The personnel carrier descended slowly, bullets ricocheting off its armored hide. Her guns barked back, cannons blasting away at buildings, autocannons sweeping the streets.

I was close now, perhaps a hundred yards or so away. But the carrier was drawing an increasing amount of attention from the rioters. Staying close to the ground for much longer was too dangerous.

She dove out of nowhere, tackling me to the pavement. I saw stars when my chin hit the ground, pain shooting up into the top of my skull. My palms scraped against the road as I tried to roll over under her.

The girl couldn’t have been much older than me—maybe eighteen, at the oldest. Fury blazed in her eyes, fists raining down blow after blow at my head and neck.

Barely, I blocked her strikes, searching for a weapon—she was too close to me for the drones to risk a shot. The gun in my hand had been thrown out of reach when I fell, but my second firearm dug into the small of my back.

I punched her square in the face. She screamed and cursed, blood streaming from her nose as she fell backward. The girl returned with an even faster rain of blows, catching me a few times in my face, before I could hit her again. “Die, you golden-eyed freak!” She screamed.

A solid connection with the side of her face sent her sprawling off me, dazed for a second. Rage took over, boiling up inside my chest. These people—no, these animals—had terrorized the country for long enough. They’d burned and looted across the nation, completely disregarding the lives of those around them. These animals didn’t care for anyone but themselves and their selfish, slanted agendas.

In their eyes, we were inferior. We were the animals, carrying a stained bloodline from a race of beings they despised. They were terrified of us, terrified we’d rise up and become their oppressors. Terrified of the power people like me held. Terrified of my golden eyes.

It was them who should have been purged from the face of the earth with extreme prejudice, them who should have been hunted down and killed, them who should have had to live in constant fear. Not me. Not my family. At least most of the nation saw us as just other humans, albeit unique, who still had a life. A life with value—a priceless human life. Not some dark group of sleeper agents for foreign governments or sadistic terrorists. Or telepaths destined to become Nazis bent on extermination and world domination.

I was atop her in an instant, knees pinning her arms to the ground, fists raining down blow after blow. She cried out, dark red liquid streaming from her mouth and nose.

The legislation she and other anarchists protested would bring equality—true equality—and protection under law for telepaths and Peace Keeper descendants alike. It must have been nice for someone like her, who never had to fear being slaughtered with her family in the middle of the night by a gang hunting down telepaths with golden eyes. Must’ve been nice sleeping in peace at night, worried only about your crush not texting you back, or a test at school the next day.

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw hurt. Strike after strike blasted through her week attempts to block them with her arms. Patches of black and purple were already spreading around her eyes and cheeks. Much of her face was no longer visible beneath broken skin and streaming blood.

“Alix, let’s go—leave her!” Taz directed through a loudspeaker attached to one of the drones circling overhead. “We’re getting called back to base, the drones are almost out of ammo, and we’ve gotta pull out—there’s a lot of idiots with heavy weapons headed our way. The carrier’s a sitting duck.”

“Fine.” I stood up, the girl groaning beneath me. My vision blackened for a moment. I swayed on my feet as I tried to move, still dizzy from the hits to my head.

Shouts of “Kill him!” echoed down the narrow street, sending more rioters dashing my direction. Bullets streamed from the drones, empty shell casings dropping onto the ground.

I staggered toward the rescuing carrier, brain finally clearing. Spots still danced in my vision. Definitely have a concussion.

Chink, chink, chink. The last spent cartridge dropped from one drone, then another, and another.

"Alix, run!” Taz commanded. “Go! Come on, man, get to the carrier!”

Retrieving the gun from the small of my back, I pulled back the slide. Golden brass glinted in the flickering light. Perfect.

I turned, weapon raised. Bullets whistled past my face and torso as I returned fire, dropping the leader of the charge. The metal bat he wielded clanged against the asphalt. I fired again and again, dropping four more, all the while stepping quickly backward toward the carrier and the deafening roar of its engines and autocannons.

The last man dropped to his knees, a knife slipping from his hands, blood streaming from two bullet wounds in his chest.

The girl forced herself up onto all fours, spitting blood. A hateful gaze seared into my soul as she struggled to her feet. Crimson streams covered her face and neck, more spattered across her arms and ripped T-shirt.

I let my weapon fall, halting my retreat to the APC. Which of us is more wrong? No, no—they started this.

With a cry of rage, she sprang at me. The battered girl halved the distance between us in a second.

You people will never learn. I raised my gun and pulled the trigger.

Her face paled with shock and pain, screaming mouth agape but silent. Her steps halted. She wobbled, tears streaming down her bloodied face. Panting and coughing up blood, she struggled to reach me.

I fired another round, this time into her leg.

With a scream, she dropped to the red-spattered road. Arms flailing, she scrabbled at the pavement, still trying desperately to reach me.

She’ll live. But did you make her hatred worse? Confrontation like this always makes things worse. Chaos breeds chaos, bloodshed creates bloodshed.

I left her and ran the remaining few yards to the carrier. The APC’s iron side slid open, jets firing to lift her, as I dove inside. Glancing over my shoulder, I watched the girl reach out for me, fury replacing the pain in her cries and curses. Hatred, all the way to the last. Stupid. But are we really that different?

After all this time I spent,

Chasing shadows and smoke

Dodging the spears you threw

While I drowned in my own blood,

I came to realize

Your rotting soul, thinly coated in

Sweet and soured love,

Was only meant to fool me—

Your arms dragged me

Into a dangerous embrace

Closer to your stillborn heart

Wrapping my soul in your lies.

Deeper into the abyss

You coaxed and prodded me

Shoving when I was hesitant

Sliding daggers under my ribs

You never loved me.

I gave you everything—

You took all I could give,

Every pound of flesh and drop of blood.

So after all this time I spent,

I opened my eyes to see

The only one I hate more than me

Is YOU.

Bike To School Day

Cartoonist Day

National Hoagie Day

Cinco De Mayo

National Astronaut Day

National Silence The Shame Day

Okay here is a quick breakdown on a couple of these: Astronaut Day celebrates what else but astronauts. Soviet Lt. Yuri Gagarin became the first human to orbit Earth. Alan Shepard became the first American to fly into space. And John Glenn would become the first American to orbit the Earth --- Hoagie Day: This big sandwich is known by several names: hoagie, sub, submarine, or a hero. Hoagies are a regular on most diets in America. People eat them for lunch, dinner, and even as a late night snack. It's a quick meal or people on the go. The popularity of the Hoagie sub is due to the diversity and variety of its contents. It can be hot or cold, luncheon meat or meatballs, and will contain no cheese, or a variety of different cheeses. Then, the fun begins as you pile on any number and combinations of extras.

Now, to the task at hand.

Bike To School Day

Today is the perfect time to ride your bike to school. The sunny spring weather is perfect for a ride. Biking is relaxing. Biking is fun. And biking is a healthy exercise. The League of American Bicyclists and schools around the country work together encourage students to skip the bus ride, and bike to school for both exercise and for fun. In today's digital electronic world, most kids in America can use the exercise and time away from the I-pads and cell phones. Encouraging today's youth to ride a bike, can lead to a lifelong addiction to cycling. And that's a good addiction. It also leads to healthier adults.

The first Bike to School Day was held in 2012 with approximately 1,000 schools participating. It has quickly grown, and now thousands of schools take part in this. In addition to promoting health and exercise through biking, the promoters are also seeking to assure safe baking routes to and from schools.

Cartoonist Day

Cartoons brighten up, and lighten up our lives. So it is only fitting that we have a day like today to celebrate past, present, and future cartoonists. We are all indebted to them for making or lives happier and more light-hearted.

From Sponge Bob SquarePants to Bart Simpson and Mickey Mouse, cartoons make us smile. They make us feel good. Most cartoons are intended to be funny. Others are designed for an almost endless number of reasons. Some cartoons are designed to send a message of some kind. On occasion, they can be serious, political, instructional, or promotional. Of the many types of cartoons, absent are cartoons that are sad or sorrowful. That would run counter to the reason cartoons exist.

Cartoon characters can be found in practically any and all media. They are in newspaper and magazine comic strips, or the "Funny Papers". Peanuts, Dennis the Menace, Beetle Bailey, Betty Boop and so many more cartoon characters got their start in printed media. Comic books abound with cartoon characters. Cartoon characters have been on both daytime and nighttime television since the days of the black and white TV. Cartoon characters grace the big screen, too. Disney's Mickey Mouse first appeared in the movie "Steamboat Willie" on November 18, 1928. More recent examples include Shrek, Aladdin, Nemo, and Dora the Explorer. Cartoon characters are used everywhere in advertising, too. Characters like the Trix Bunny and Captain Crunch adorn many cereal boxes. A well-recognized gecko and duck, each sells insurance on television.

The first cartoon character wasn't Steamboat Willy or Mickey Mouse. In 1895, Richard F. Outcault introduced the "Yellow Kid". He appeared in publisher Joseph Pulitzer's New York World, running from 1895 to 1898. This bald kid in a yellow nightshirt later ran in William Randolph Hearst's New York Journal.

"Don't worry about the world coming to an end today.

It's already tomorrow in Australia."—Charles M. Schulz

Cinco De Mayo

On May 5, 1862, the Mexican army defeated the French army at the Battle of Puebla. This single military battle signified defeat of a European colonial power, and a victory for the Mexican people. This single battle was the roots of Cinco de Mayo.

Cinco de Mayo is not the celebration of Mexican Independence which is celebrated on September 16th.

What Cinco de Mayo has come to be, is much more than one battle in the colonial history of Mexico. Rather, it has come to signify Hispanic and Mexican pride and a time to celebrate the rich culture.

Today, this holiday is celebrated by Mexicans, and especially the Hispanic community in the U.S. It is a time of song, dance, partying, and in general a time to be proud to be of Hispanic descent.

"Never let fear of striking out get in your way."—Babe Ruth

National Silence The Shame Day

Today brings an opportunity to continue the conversation about mental health and wellness and erase the stigma associated with mental illness.

Mental illness, like any other health concern, is diagnosed at different stages. It may have fewer symptoms from time to time and/or impact on our daily functioning. It is also important to know that mental illness is treatable, and recovery is possible.

Unlike other areas of our health care, many people don’t have an affordable or accessible routine plan of care for mental health challenges. Individuals who may have access often suffer in silence due to the stigma of being diagnosed.

More Strange Holidays Coming!

Welcome to yet another edition of Roundtable Wednesday.

Keep in mind that somewhere down the road I may call on

one of you to take part in this, so if you see me

knocking on your door, you'll know what to expect.

This month the focus is on a young girl from Australia.

Friendly, open, and a treat to know.

After you read this, you will see what I mean.

Please give a warm welcome to:

HelenaTherese.

Can you shed some light about yourself that other people here can get a feel for who you are?

I’m a fifteen year old author and musician from Australia looking to spread some cheer in this somewhat depressed modern world. I’ve been writing since I was six and, while it is currently just a hobby, I hope to publish a novel someday.

Writer’s write, it’s what we do, but what do you see as your strong point, or motivation to write?

I want to impact other lives with my words. I want to make them smile or cry or laugh. I want to change the way they look at life. I think it’s incredible how convincing even just one carefully crafted sentence can be, and that someone as young and boring as myself has the potential to change lives simply through a lot of black lines on white paper.

The very first thing you ever wrote, if you remember it, how did it come about?

I think it was a short fairytale written in a small pink covered notebook when I was about six years old. At that time I was obsessed with reading Enid Blyton’s stories and my style was heavily based on hers. I think fairytales were a good foundation for me and taught me how enjoyable writing can be. I still have that notebook and it has since been filled with more embarrassing short stories (and an awful lot of spelling errors too :=).

Who are your favorite authors and please; give us a few names?

I am very fond of Henryk Sienkiewicz, Robert Hugh Benson, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Kate Seredy, C.S. Lewis, G.K. Chesterton, Charles Dickens, Baroness Orczy, and Corrie Ten Boom. I’m sure there are half a million others I could add to the list, though.

Any favorite songs/artists you listen to that set a tone for you when writing?

I love anything by Jim Croce, particularly Time in a Bottle, and I Got a Name, and I enjoy some Billy Joel songs such as Honesty, Piano Man, and She’s Always a Woman. Lately I’ve been listening to Mozart’s Lacrimosa on theremin (which has got to be the most amazing instrument created). Some other random songs I love are old ones like Toselli’s Serenata, Swedish Rhapsody, and Estrellita.

Do you have any literary work on tap for publication, or have you been published?

I’ve had my poem “Rainbow” published in a small online magazine, but that’s all thus far.

Is there any one particular book you have read you would recommend others to read?

A book that I found very interesting was The Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn … though it’s rather heavy, it’s worth the read. I will cheat, though, by adding another - The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom.

When you aren’t writing, what do you do that pays the bills?

Being only fifteen, I thankfully have no bills to pay; but before Covid, I would go out on the street to busk (playing music on the street for people). I loved seeing people’s reactions to the music and I earned enough to buy myself a nice shiny banjo.

Why did you join Prose and how long have you been a Proser?

I joined five months ago (I can’t believe how fast that time flew by) because I was desperate to share my writing and get valuable feedback. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to give it a trial. I’m not turning back!

When you hear the term “less is more” … what is the first thing that comes to mind?

Well… sometimes the less you say, the more impactful your words are. I could spend hours writing a persuasive essay to try and convince you of something, or I could simply say what’s necessary in one sentence without sounding preachy. That’s how I interpret it, anyhow.

Are there places as far as social media accounts, perhaps your own website you would like Proser’s to be aware of where you can be found?

Not currently. I don’t even know how Instagram works ;)

Favorite hobbies?

Ooh, I love playing my guitar and violin, singing, fishing, eating (not sure if that’s a hobby, but I do consider myself to be something of a food enthusiast) and keeping a journal.

What is the single most thing you like?

The sea. I love staying in little seaside towns, fishing off jetties, sitting on the beach, searching for creatures in rock pools, and writing about it all. Can’t say much for my swimming skills, sadly, though I do love being in the water.

What one thing do you really dislike?

Modern pop music. One day I shall have to write an essay on this subject. I can’t stand the lyrics and autotune. Perhaps I’m just old fashioned.

With Covid surrounding us, what advice would you want to share with people?

Quit binge-watching YouTube and Netflix. Do something worthwhile like learning a new language or working on a passion project so that by the time lockdowns are just a past nightmare, you’ll have results and peace of mind knowing you didn’t waste valuable time.

If you could offer up one piece of advice for other writer’s, what would it be?

You have a story to tell so tell it; don’t stifle it just because you don’t believe it’s good enough. Take your time, be honest with yourself, and write because you enjoy writing.

Lastly, your favorite quote?

“There is joy in self-forgetfulness.

So I try to make the light in others' eyes my sun,

the music in others' ears my symphony,

the smile on others' lips my happiness.”—Helen Keller

***************

Thank ye kindly for being a part of Roundtable Wednesday,

HelenaTherese. This was a treat!

Now, as with past Proser’s, she has no idea which of her

writings will be featured here.

So please enjoy and check out some things she has written!

***************

Rainbow

Violet is a humble flower, hidden in the shade.

Indigo is ripened grapes, coloured with their age.

Orange is a candle flame, flickering in the breeze.

Red is a little poppy, pretty as you please.

Blue is the ocean, spraying cold and wet.

Yellow is the sun, as it rises, as it sets.

Green is the grass as it sways in the field.

Rainbow is the symbol of a promise fully sealed.

the shore of the pond is sandy, blandly melting into the matted grey clouds above.

i try to draw a heart, my finger shaking as it traces through bits of rock. impulse takes over at the last moment, slashing the curved form in half with a jagged line.

the heart is broken. just like mine.

a rock finds its way into my hand, and i toss it into the shadowy water, watching it sink. down, down, down.

there's no one else around. i don't know why i would expect anything else, but there was a spark of hope. it's gone now, hushed into only a whisper of smoke.

i flatten myself against the shore, looking up at the sky.

one day, it will be different. i'll want to do, see, and be everything.

but for now, nothing will be okay.

The concrete man

lets us into

a concrete room

And isn't it comical

—like a Windex commercial—

when my small

uncoordinated body

slams

into the display window

My father will tell me

later

how it caused him so much pain

to see me learn

about walls

the first time

I couldn't have been more than 2 years old when I felt my first touch of anxiety. I vividly remember walking into a huge grocery store. Now, I was pretty small, but I'll still swear that this store was bigger than any I've ever seen. Looming above my head was this monster. A giant spider 60 feet in the air! I'd never seen anything like it. Its sinister smile faced me and its sharp teeth glared in the yellow light. I panicked. I didn't know what to do. Could I make a run for it? I tugged at my mom's pant leg and in my smallest voice I said "Mommy, that spider is making me nervous."

@QuietSilence

i think i was about 5. maybe younger.

my uncle was proud beyond words. he got his first car.

i don’t know which make or model, but i think this is my earliest bad memory.

he took me with him, cruising along the coast. he was so cool he even let me sit in the front seat-a thing that was of the forbidden realm .

what interested me, was not the open road, or the things that we could see, or even ocassionally curious passing cars.

what interested me more than anything, was the roll up button.

you see, back then, windows were most often crancked up and down down. which was just boring.

me and my uncle shared a fascination with jet fighters. sitting there, i felt my hand on the door handle , thumb on the button, the car speeding, pushong the throttle, ready to engage the Migs...

so i open and close, open and close. my uncle tells me to stop, and i take it as a suggestion-only.

i open and close, open and close.

my uncle askes me again...

open and close..

SLAP!!

we drove to an ice cream parlor, and i never rode shotgun with my uncle again.

---+++++++++++++

i guess i had the bad luck to be born in december. the kindie planned the budget for birthday presents less rationally than you expect. so by my birthday, most of it is gone, swallowed up in parties, and holidays and presents for everyone that cones in that budget years.

so the other guys got widup cars, and robots and stuff. i got a small metal car.

but it does not matter, because i eas in love.

there was a girl in my class called cindy or rachael (versions differ..) and i was trying deseperately to impress her. but she was not an easy person to get on with. she had terrible tantrums, and no patiance at all. and so, that birthday was my big chance!!

so we are sitting in a circle, singing. it is then that i decided to make the greatest, most romantic gesture in my life. i got up, took the little metal car in hand and walked all the way around , to where cindy was sitting. i handed her the car, to the shock and amazement of everyone. i could not say much, and don’t remember if i said anything at all. after saying (or not) what was the reason for my giving my present , i went back to my place, and we started singing again.

which is when the car hit me, with great velocity in the forehead. cindy was a great shot. apparently she saw through me, and didn’t like neither me or the toy. it was tiny but dense enough, to make a hard impact. there was blood, and stitches. and even today, there is a tiny scar. it used to be mostly hidden by my ’fro. but those days are gone. the bay is wide and deep enough for supertankers lay anchor.. only they need to steer clear of the tiny , pesky shoal, that is cindy’s birthday present.

I actually found out about Prose after I joined my previous school’s writing club (I moved countries in the middle of the pandemic, hence me not being active at the end of 2020) but I don’t think I would’ve continued writing anything about my own ideas, my own worlds in my own words if it weren’t for Prose and its community. I may not ‘talk’ to many people often but from the few interactions I had, I recieved (and tried to give back) support for wishes/dreams that we all share to some extent. I’ve also seen this in comments under posts (by both myself and other Prosers) asking for advice/help with almost everything. This community really is unlike anything I've seen (not that I've seen much lol) and maybe because it's made up of writers/readers. Another one of the best things of this platform is that you get to read and write, which gave me the headspace I needed to do both (and of course the design of the platform also looks wayyyy better than Google Docs lol).

Some suggestions for the platform/community would be to promote the use of Portals more. Yeah I'm also hypocrite because I don't use them much either but I will try to use them more. I only found out about the Support portal recently as it has been brought to my attention through @Danceinsilence's post about the beta Prose (beta.theprose.com). I especially think that the publishing portal could and should be a huge help for those who have questions about publishing if more users were made aware of it.