David Lynch’s disturbing truth, taking refuge in strangers, and the wings of nature.
"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
The Need For Knowing
Tell me about winter Father,
Tell me about the cold kisses,
and the longing touches of the wind
The pinches on my cheeks and
the tickling on my nose
Tell me about winter Father
For there is more I want to know
How it comes and it goes
and how it snows
Tell me more!
Tell me more!
Tell me why such a cold season is such a cheery time
And why the snow swallows me up
Oh look how high!
Tell me about winter Father
I want to know more
About Mrs. Winter
And how she goes.
Finding Humanity
He's my best friend. Some say he's bad, inhumane even. But they don't know him like I do.
He saved me from the streets. I was wandering, alone, beyond hunger. Just waiting to die. I ran into him, and he snarled, "Watch where you're going, idiot!" I didn't have the energy to respond. But then he saw me, saw the state I was in, and led me to his car. He didn't mention how filthy I was.
At his place I was so weak, he had to carry me inside. He helped me clean up and offered me toast and water.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll go shopping tomorrow. You can stay as long as you want. My name is Brian."
I just smiled my thanks. I was grateful for a full belly, a warm place to stay. I curled up on the couch and fell into a dreamless sleep.
Months went by, and I became more myself, ribs no longer showing, hunger a distant memory. We'd walk to the park, and it was sheer joy to touch grass, smell fresh air. Brian took great delight in my joy.
Brian worked from home, and I didn't like what it did to him. He spent all day on the phone, using a fake happy voice. Oily. Sometimes he'd get agitated, and slam his hand on his desk. Sometimes, the call would go well and he’d buy me a gift.
One night on his couch a nightmare woke me up, whimpering. I felt his strong arms lift me up and carry me to his bed. “It’s ok,“ he whispered, “you’re safe now.” He smelled like an autumn breeze. I fell asleep, safe in his embrace.
Brian told me about his past. He'd hurt people, bullied them, preyed on their innermost fears. He'd physically hurt them too, pinch, trip, shove. He'd been mean just to get a reaction.
I didn’t offer judgement or absolution. Just listened.
He quit his job. In the middle of a call he looked at me. I looked back. He said, “Look, you need to watch out for scammers, they prey on good open-hearted people like you. You almost lost a lot of money, and you wouldn’t have gotten it back. You can’t trust everyone, ok? You have a good night too, Agnes.”
He hung up the call, relieved. His next phone call he sounded happy for real.
“Jake, it’s been a while. Do you want to come over and watch the game tonight?”
When Jake walked in, I could tell they were brothers, they even had a similar smell.
“So,“ Jake said, “This is the girl who turned your life around? The one who tamed the savage beast?”
”Yeah, she’s a good girl. The best girl.” Brian smiled radiantly at me and I nuzzled his hand.
”Have you figured out a name yet?” Jake scratched my ears. "A dog's gotta have a name."
Brian‘s voice caught in his throat. He cleared it and said, ”Her name is Hope.”
If you name it, then it exists
I keep trying to reframe
Time.
Figure out why it matters.
And of course, it's regret that demands an answer.
Time is yet another construct
For us to attempt to alter.
To go back, change the horrors,
To fix Now.
Leap forward,
Find the flaws,
Jump back
To fix Now.
To create Utopia.
The problem is,
We think it's all about us.
That space and time should move in accordance to personally right the wrongs.
But we have yet so much to learn,
A pause we need to learn to take,
Some thought before we create in haste.
The time you will never be enough
If you are looking behind you,
Or too far ahead.
There will only be enough time
When you understand that
This is Now.
This is It.
This is the only chance you will ever get to be right here, right now.
Use your Now
wisely.
The Disheartened Painter and the Dark-Eyed Ferret
“Let’s make a deal, yes, let us make a deal,” said the ferret with the dark eyes.
It was talking to the disheartened painter, who stood despondently before his canvas, on the meadow green.
The painter could not paint anything worthwhile in his own eyes.
The painter, was a very desperate man.
“What is your offer, little ferret?” asked he.
“Give me one of your paintbrush hairs,” answered the ferret with the dark eyes,
“Just one, and I will give you an amazing vision.”
So, the painter plucked out one of his paintbrush bristles, and gave it to the ferret.
The small thing slithered away, and did not appear again, leaving the man to ponder.
As he fell asleep that night, the painter dreamed of a wonderful painting.
It was filled with the most vibrant reds he had ever seen on a canvas.
When he awoke, the painter said to himself,
“I must paint this thing, this wonderful thing, that I have dreamt of.”
He pulled out his biggest, whitest canvas, and set it upon his easel.
But when he pulled out his paints, he frowned.
His red paints, every tube, and every jar, were awfully, awfully dull.
Whatever could he do?
Then, the painter got an idea.
He went out to his garden, and plucked off all the dark red rose petals from their stems.
He threw them into his stone mortar and began to grind them with a pestle.
“Rumble, rumble, rumble,” went the pestle.
“Squish, squish, squish,” went the dark red rose petals.
But alas, the paint from the roses was still, awfully, awfully dull.
The painter sighed.
Then, he got an idea.
He went into his pantry, and drew out a quart of bright red raspberries.
He threw them into his stone mortar and began to grind them with a pestle.
“Rumble, rumble, rumble,” went the pestle.
“Squish, squish, squish,” went the bright red raspberries.
But alas, the paint from the raspberries was too light, and dreadfully, dreadfully thin.
The painter sighed.
Then, he got an idea.
He went onto his porch, and picked up a few mottled red ladybirds, who were hiding from the rain.
He threw them into his stone mortar, and began to grind them with a pestle.
“Rumble, rumble, rumble,” went the pestle.
“Squish, squish, squish,” went the mottled red ladybirds.
But alas, the paint from the ladybirds was too thick, and awfully, awfully dull.
The painter sighed.
Then, he got an idea.
His neighbor had a little, charming, red songbird that she kept in a cage on her back windowsill.
He went up to the windowsill, and grabbed the bird, who let out a nervous twitter.
He threw it into a boiling iron pot, which hung over the fireplace.
“Bubble, bubble, bubble,” went the pot.
“Squawk, squawk, squawk,” went the charming, red, songbird.
But alas, the paint from the songbird was an ugly, frothy gray.
The painter let out his gustiest sigh yet, and threw his paintbrush into the fire.
“Oh, I am such a fool!” cried he, “A fool, for listening to that black-eyed vermin!”
Silence fell upon the room.
Then, the painter got up in a rage, throwing things about.
And as he did, one of his fingers caught on a little nail, sticking out of his easel.
“Drip, drip, drip,” went the shining, scarlet blood, which dribbled out from his torn finger.
The painter smiled.
Then, he got an idea.
His hand reached up, and delved into his chest, drawing out a shining, scarlet heart.
He threw it into the boiling iron pot, which hung over the fireplace.
“Bubble, bubble, bubble,” went the pot.
“Thump, thump, thump,” went his shining, scarlet heart.
He threw it into his stone mortar, and began to grind it with a pestle.
“Rumble, rumble, rumble,” went the pestle.
“Squish, squish, squish,” went his shining, scarlet heart.
And when the paint was finished, it was even more vibrant than the paint in his vision.
“At last!” exclaimed the painter.
He set his largest, whitest canvas upright again.
He grabbed his favorite paintbrush.
He sat, and began to paint.
Furiously, he worked into the evening.
He painted with light strokes.
With hard strokes.
With bold strokes, and gentle strokes.
And when he was finished, he was glad, but also very, very tired.
So, the painter went to sleep.
When he awoke, he drew the sheet off of his magnificent masterpiece.
And he looked on, in absolute horror.
For the paint, was an awful, awful brown.
The painter cried.
He crawled into his bed, drawing up the coarse, brown sheets over his head.
He slept.
He slept and did not wake from his slumber.
©coyotetrickstergod|daniellejacobs
War Is Indeed A Racket
We find ourselves
Tossed about
On the howling wind
Of an unwanted war
Promulgated by politicians
For their banker friends
Missiles fly
Bombs explode
As the war machines of
The Industrial
*** Military
*** Complex
Violently
Plow through
Blood soaked
Fields of battle
Harvesting
The lives of men
Who would have
Preferred to
Be alive
And I Never Said I Was Sorry.
TW: Self-harm, SA.
I don't mean to hurt her, honest. Really, it's the nerves that make me act strangely. She's so unabashedly charming; it makes me so afraid of making a fool of myself that I do it inadvertently.
We met our junior year. I was sitting beside Mikey. Mike. I keep forgetting he wants to ditch the nickname. We had an assembly, but I can't remember what it was for. All I remember was the stress it caused me and others, I'm sure. As juniors, our biggest worry was preparing for college. My older brother got into the ivy leagues. He could be the valedictorian if he didn't have a penchant for parties. But even still, they are big shoes to fill.
I was focusing on the wood paneling of the auditorium when I saw her for the first time. She was with the cross-country girls. She'd always tell me she joined the team more to make friends and less to compete. But she was pretty good. She made the varsity cut at least. I thought her hair was red at first, but it must have been the lighting. Her hair sort of straddles a line between blonde and brown.
"Mike, who is that girl?" I leaned towards him and pointed towards her.
He squinted. I never knew why they kept the lights so dim in there before the assembly even began. "That's Amelia. She has chem with me. She's from Virginia."
I sought her out after the assembly let out. I thought I'd lost her, but I caught up with her in the hallway. "Hey, it's Amelia, right?"
She looked as if I'd asked her to strip in the middle of the hallway. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes got wide. But she did answer. "That's me." Even her voice was pretty.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you!" I laughed, hoping I played it off well. "I just saw you in the auditorium and thought you were really pretty."
She tilted her head to the side with a little smile, "Oh, well thank you. What's your name?" I could tell she was from Virginia. It wasn't overt, but there was a twinge of a southern accent in the way she spoke.
"Daniel," I said. And I regret it now, but I stuck my hand out to shake hers. She took my hand firmly. I didn't think about it until after, but that may have been the weakest handshake I've given in my life. "This might seem abrupt, but would you like to go out with me sometime?" My brother told me that being forward was the best method, but I could tell I caught her off guard again.
"Sorry, but we just met," she said with a little laugh. It wasn't mean, but I was still a little hurt. I think she could read it on my face, because she was quick to add to her previous statement. "I would, but my daddy wouldn't let me. Because, you know, you're a boy." The left side of her mouth quirked up a little as if she and I were sharing some private joke.
The warning bell rang, and we went our separate ways. Maybe I took it the wrong way, but I found it unfair to her that her father wasn't letting her date; she was a junior!
Looking back on it all, she spent a lot of time apologizing about her dad. He didn't let her do anything, especially not with a guy. He was the old school Christian type who valued their daughter's virtue in a borderline creepy way.
Eventually, after bumping into each other a few times in the hall, she agreed to meet with me to go for a jog around the campus of a local college on a Saturday afternoon. She hadn't told her dad.
A jog was not my idea of a good first date, but to get out of the house without suspicion, she said we were out of other options. I like to run a little bit. I'd go a few times a week, so I wasn't too worried about it.
She showed up in a light blue jacket and leggings, something I'd never seen her wear before. They were flattering. "Daniel!" She waved. Even though I'd already seen her, I waved back and jogged over as if I had just spotted her.
"Good to see you!" I grinned. Tentatively, I stepped forward to give her a hug and, to my delight, she let me. It was an awkward side hug, but I would take it.
We ran slowly around the campus. She said she only wanted to get to five miles. It was getting cold, and the fog had begun to seep through the trees and over the pathways.
She told me all about Virginia. She had a tomboyish disposition, but a girly face and voice. It was the perfect combination.
I convinced her to get ice cream with me from the local shop, Cal's, despite the cold. She agreed but only because it was on the way to her house. She let me drive her there even though the walk would have taken maybe five minutes. I had an old Toyota, but it ran pretty well. Well enough.
It squeaked when I rolled to a stop at a traffic light. "I'm taking it in to fix that noise," I apologized. It was hardly impressive.
"You just need new brake pads," she chuckled.
I turned to her with a little bewilderment, "that's what the mechanic told me. I'm waiting until he gets the new pads in. How did you know that?"
"I try to know a little bit about everything," Amelia confessed with a shrug. Her cheeks were turning pink.
We got ice cream. I always order butter pecan, but when she saw the flavor on the menu, she wrinkled her nose. "I hate butter pecan. It doesn't taste like either of those flavors."
I didn't tell her I liked the flavor. I ordered black cherry instead. We sat in my car for a few minutes. The parlor was a little too crowded and it was too chilly to sit outside. I told her that I played violin. Her eyes lit up. She didn't play it, but she played the piano and the flute. “I find the violin such a romantic instrument.” She laughed.
For a first date, it began a little unconventionally I suppose, but it turned out well.
Amelia told me she loves listening to music, so I gave her the aux cord and asked her to play some songs. She pulled up some little-known artist. Jonathan something, I think his name was. And to my delight, she even sang along. I adored her voice when she spoke, but when she sang it was near ethereal. If I didn’t want to date her before, I sure did now.
“Can I kiss you?” I blurted before I could think better of it. We were sweaty from the jog and my lips were completely chapped from the wind, but I couldn’t have imagined a better time.
I expected another rejection, but she didn’t say anything. She closed her eyes and let me do the rest.
Of course, her dad found out about our date. She avoided me at school the next week. Even my texts went unanswered. Our school had a zero-phone policy, so I didn’t know if her dad had taken it or not, and I only caught a glance of her before she’d disappear into the crowd.
It made me worried. I hoped I hadn’t gotten her into serious trouble, but did she really have to avoid me at school? We kissed. Did she not want to talk about it? Had she hated it?
She texted me on Saturday. She’d told her dad about the date. Her dad wanted to talk to me.
I tried to joke. Do I need to ask permission to date you? I thought it was funny. But no more than a couple minutes later, she sent back one word: Yes.
We made arrangements for the following day. Amelia met me at the door and gave me a hug. “Thanks for doing this. My dad is a little overprotective.”
I met her two younger brothers and her little sister. Her mom was sweet too. Her dad smiled, but I could tell that it was only for Amelia’s benefit. He was an intimidating guy. I think he knew it. He stood at almost six and a half feet tall and wore an old T-shirt from his days in the military. He had a buzz cut and a couple scars on his face.
He invited me into his study. Amelia was not allowed to join us. He gave me the typical speech about how Amelia was his daughter and that I’d need to treat her well. He asked about my faith. I answered honestly. My parents were Catholics, but I was still exploring my options. Agnostic. He didn’t like that answer. He wanted Amelia to date a Christian man. But eventually he said I could take Amelia on dates as long as she was back by 11 pm. 9 pm on school nights.
Amelia and I spent every moment her dad allowed us to. I started to wait for her after her cross-country practice. She even began to come to my house after school to do homework with me. I guess that’s where things went wrong.
She was alright with hugs, but she didn’t let me kiss her often. Especially not at her own house. She was always looking over her shoulder for her dad. But even at my house, they were always the lightest kisses.
We sat on the floor of my basement on the beige rug my parents had just put in. She was kicking my butt in a card game, and I leaned over and kissed her. She giggled.
“You always laugh when we kiss. Does it tickle or something?” I smiled at her. I loved when her face flushed. The bridge of her nose, her cheeks and her ears all turned hot pink.
“It tickles a little,” she said, tracing her finger through the grooves of the corduroy couch she leaned on.
“You can kiss me harder,” I said, stumbling over my words a little. I scooted over to sit next to her.
She obliged and put a little more pressure against my lips.
“Open your mouth a little,” I said with a laugh.
“N—no!” She laughed. But it was a nervous laugh.
I sat back. I couldn’t hide the frown. A hug always stayed a hug. A little kiss always stayed a little kiss with her. “Amelia, we’ve been dating for months now. I thought you’d be a little more comfortable around me.”
She shrugged, sensing the change. “It’s just that my dad—”
“Enough about your dad.” It was probably more forceful than it needed to be. “I don’t care what he wants. What do you want?”
She was quiet, looking at her hands. “I want to be a normal teenager.”
She let me kiss her hard. She let me put my hands under her clothes. I didn’t realize she was crying until I had two fingers on the button of her jeans.
“Please stop, Daniel.” She whispered.
I stopped. But it happened again and again. She’d kiss me. I tried to let it be enough for me. But I wanted more. It always made her cry.
In December of our senior year, she took half a bottle of acetaminophen. Her mom called the ambulance in time to save her. We broke up a month later.
She’s married now to a man her dad handpicked for her. She’s even got two kids.
My biggest regret is not saving her. I could have shown her that she had the right to choose her own path, but I hurt her. And I never said I was sorry.