I let the soot stain my fingertips ashen grey, pinching the corner of a splintered log as I toss it further into the metal pit.

I imagine how tired the flames must be. Most refer to a fire as raging, as angry as a hellhound biting at the confines we try haplessly to keep it within.

But would a fire not burn so bright, not burn so fiercely that it wishes to rest? Because as the flames turns to ash, the wood burnt something terrible there squats it's assailant, blowing on its ruin and trying to catch carcass to cardboard.

I try to clean up its disarray with my own, and it feels as though helping a comrade to its feet around the shrapnel of stainless steel.

I tend to this fire as though its a tangible peace of me, tend it solely until it shows sign of exhaustion, and smile when it lets out a relieved sigh as I douse it before bed. Watching it twirl and dance above the sky top of the tent, feeling just the bit lighter for it all.

You are

a greedy bastard

Today, your grasping hands

pillaged

a most beautiful treasure

of a human

I hate that you mock

this impending season

of renewal and life

with your unwanted presence

I will rejoice the day

that smug look

is ripped

from your ancient face

One day

I will dance

at the news

of YOUR demise

You may have your way

(for now)

with our frail, earthly shells

but in the very end

we win

Rest in peace, C.T.

I will see your radiant smile again, sweet friend. I love you.

https://youtu.be/M4Zg3t5Kt5Y?si=ykFxBtObB115kM4W

“When death dies, all things live.”

The deep rumble rolls through me,

causing raised flesh

and belly tingles.

The sound reverberates through my soul, making me long for more.

And wonder how it would feel

whispering across my skin.

Masculine energy pours out of him,

Sweeping me up

And wrapping around my body

Like a warm embrace

That I never want to leave.

It's hold on me

Tight

The throbbing in my core,

Faster.

Leaving me wanting more,

Than just

His voice.

By: C.R.Williams

On the show today, Miller leads into a poem by Mariah, a short and heart-soaked piece to arrive on shore when it must, and then into a short story by a fellow named Frank Gainey, whose words flavored the coffee beneath the mic, and set Saturday for an open eye and a casual shot of bourbon.

Here's the link to the writers being narrated on Prose. Radio:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0S3Ct8RNbs

And we'll link the authors below, along with their pieces.

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

I’m 6 years old. The oval-shaped river rock in my bed has long gone cold. I get out of bed and heave the rock back on top of the wood stove where it can reheat for my next bedtime.

It’s Saturday and I’m excited to go outdoors, despite the bitter cold. Today, my brothers are taking me sledding— one of my very favorite things to do in the winter.

We dress in many layers of shoddy clothing and we use several pairs of socks for gloves. Our “sleds” are any form of smooth plastic we can scavenge, but in a pinch, we use black trash bags.

As we head out the door, my older brother looks embarrassed and sad. We are sure to be teased, like always. Poor mountain kids and their lack of proper outdoor gear and “real” sleds are easy targets. At best, we are ignored and avoided, as if our poverty is somehow contagious.

We trudge on toward the sledding hill, determined to eke out every bit of joy from this day, no matter what—

A man clears his throat.

An uneasy laugh escapes a woman.

I look around the table, trying to remember what was said and by whom.

Eyes of blue and green implore me. Nicely styled hair and perfectly straightened teeth are all around. Their clothes appear boring at first glance, but actually scream old money to those who know.

My hand nervously reaches for my water glass. It brushes against my place setting: plates chilled and heated(!). I take a sip and realize the 6-year-old girl within will never cease to be impressed with tiny details such as these.

My fiancé gently squeezes my hand under the table as his family member politely repeats his question, “Do you ski? Or perhaps enjoy other winter activities?”

set adrift

lost again

mere starlight

to guide

gazing upward

holding fast

to hope

this battered vessel

may still

find its way

upon your shore

making out on the basement couch is worthy of subterfuge and celebration

and it's death. the ghost of innocence watches me from the corner of the room

lamenting.

graduation, the end of high school. it's death of all your circumstantial friendships and the way the sidewalk feels under your feet in your neighborhood

it's getting drunk and confessing things we shouldn't have

done in the first place. it's an epitaph for something that's already dead

nostalgia is a sister to grief. the past is dead

that boy from summer camp bleached his hair blonde and shaved it off

the cells were already dead, right?

these people at the party you argue with while you kill your liver with alcohol

they'll never call you back

they slip out of the room prematurely. the night takes them unannounced like death

even the paper i write on, the tree someone killed to make it. i ruin it with ink, it's tainted even in death.

the grease on my fingertips erodes the keyboard. but the apple juice i choked out and spit

still makes the keys stick.

i guess there's something immortal about that.

Dancing, swirling

Through an unending endeavor

Hanging on the slippery slope

Waiting for a quick pull of the lever

Will we fall, land on our feet?

Or spin infinitely into the vast universe

Perpetually echoing a fervent cry

For help to endure the very worst

This world is a hoax of twists and turns

A precarious balance of the unknown

Often murky, nothing is ever as it seems

In this life we so often bemoan

Still we trudge toward the destination

Onward through toils, tears, ice, and snow

Hope invades despite insidious despair

Driving, propelling though the step be slow

Precipitous for all that the end may be

We fight it with instinct borne in the wild

Endurance persists, taking firm root

As though, in this existence, we are beguiled

Beguiled, intrigued, and bewildered

With our many apprehensions

We stumble yet move, dancing forward

To the ultimate precipice of our ascension

“My guinea pig has lice,”

she says, which means

a veterinarian and an

ivermectin prescription,

Google says, which means

a drive too long for the

ailing minivan, the

check engine light says,

which means the mechanic

again and time off work and

a loan, my account balance says,

but she held him close

when COVID closed the world

and she could not hug

friends, this warm little creature

cooing on her chest, nibbling

hay as she Zoomed with

her teacher who would die,

so many would die,

“I’m sorry,” I say,

“we’ll help him.”