Joule’s Anomaly
Juliana hurried. What had been a beautiful summer day hiking the Appalachian Trail was quickly turning into a weather event. She had been completing portions of the trail as her schedule allowed, but lately her progress had been hit and miss. The approaching thunder had an ominous, low rumble that seemed to resonate within her. Her hike was about to be scrapped. Again.
Juliana finally located a trail shelter and quickly entered. A strong gust ripped the door from her grasp and flung it all the way open. She swore and pushed it shut behind her, relieved to have reached some semblance of safety from the coming storm.
“Looks like you made it just in time,” a deep male voice spoke.
Juliana turned around and squinted as her vision adjusted to the dim interior of the shelter. A man sat on the floor with his back propped against his pack. He was writing in a small leather journal. As she shrugged off her own pack, the stranger put his journal aside and rose to his feet. He approached her and offered an outstretched hand, “Arlo.” The timbre of his voice had the same effect on her as the approaching thunder: it somehow was felt more than heard.
She ignored that odd feeling and accepted his hand, “Juliana.”
Zings of electricity instantly flowed between them as they touched. It felt like a strong static shock, but instead of hurting, it felt… good? Juliana quickly pulled her hand away and stepped back.
“Whoa! That was weird, right?” She laughed nervously and rubbed one hand against the other.
Small branches were thrown onto the shelter's metal roof with a noisy clatter. Arlo glanced upward and shook his head, “Not weird at all. These conditions are ideal for energy exchange. Energy stored must be energy released at some point,” he looked at her and continued, “within the atmosphere and perhaps between humans, too...” he trailed off thoughtfully, slowly rubbing his hands together as well. Breaking eye contact, he ran a hand through his hair and gave a self-conscious laugh as he blushed.
He has great hair…I wish I could run my hands through it. Juliana mused.
It was now her turn to blush. The uncharacteristic, intrusive thought caught Juliana off guard.
Really? You've known him, what? A full two minutes? She admonished herself until she felt appropriately guilty.
“Juliana,” Arlo began to ask her something when another thought suddenly occurred to him, “your name…”
“Yeah, but no one calls me that. Everyone has always called me—”
“Jules,” Arlo interjected.
“Yeah! How- How did you know that it would be ‘Jules’ and not ‘Julie’?” She could not hide her surprise.
“Huh… I don't know. Just a guess. It really does suit you, though.” Arlo rubbed his chin with an amused and oddly pleased look on his face. Jules was confused by his reaction, but didn't ask.
Wanting to change the subject, yet hopeful to continue their conversation, Jules queried, “So… what do you do for a living?” She immediately cursed herself inwardly for going with such a generic question.
Arlo watched her kaleidoscope of facial expressions and laughed good-naturedly, “It's okay. I study atmospheric thermodynamics.”
“Okay. I can't even pretend I know what that is,” Jules laughed, “but can I guess what it has to do with?”
“Of course,” Arlo nodded, adjusting his glasses.
“Hmm… Meteorology? As in… weather prediction type stuff?” Jules playfully ventured.
“Not exactly. It's a branch of physics that studies the relationship between heat and energy— other things too, but I'm most fascinated in the transfer of energy that occurs in nature. So, today happens to be my favorite kind of day.” Almost on cue, thunder crackled and boomed, rattling the windows. Arlo grinned and continued, “You see, I track energy anomalies and there have been several strong, but sporadic readings in this area. I feel like I may have isolated a pattern, but it is too early to tell. I am here on vacation to hike, but also do research if the opportunity presents itself.”
They sat on the floor, facing one another. Arlo again leaned against his pack and Jules against hers. Despite their awkward start, they both now felt at ease. Without further prompting, Arlo began to explain thermodynamic theory to Jules. He was quite animated while describing his life's work.
Despite the fact Jules found Arlo to be highly intelligent and incredibly articulate, she understood very little of what he was telling her. However, what caught and held her attention was the manner in which Arlo spoke. Jules had never heard anything technical be expressed so eloquently and passionately. To her ear, his words sounded like scientific poetry— if such a thing existed. She felt like she could listen to him speak for hours.
She felt a hum growing between them as he spoke. It felt like a warm magnet, sensuously fluctuating and pulling at her center. Pulling her toward him in a most intimate manner.
Am I losing my mind, or is he feeling this too?
It was at this point that Jules became mesmerized by Arlo’s mouth. She became entranced by the way his lips moved; she couldn't help but stare. She eventually felt strangely jealous of each spoken word, each uttered syllable— if only she could be caressed by his tongue and lips like that…
Vivid images of his handsome face buried in her lap while both her hands grasped his hair came to her mind like a lightning strike. She blushed and looked away, but the image remained.
Okay, this is crazy. Stop, you perv.
But Jules did not stop. This time she welcomed the intrusive thoughts and embraced the resultant heat that flooded her body. Her mouth watered, her heart raced, and her breath rate increased. Her nipples hardened and eventually, the throbbing slickness between her thighs became impossible to ignore. She adjusted how she was sitting, but the unavoidable rubbing only made the ache worse.
The last few synapses in her brain that were not lust-infused attempted to reason with her:
Perhaps there is a scientific explanation. Is it somehow related to this storm? Would Arlo know? I mean, he is a scientist after all. But… what if this can't be explained?
And then suddenly, Jules didn't care anymore what the reason might be. She leaned toward him, the pull now too strong to resist. Outside, the storm intensified. Its insistence to be known was now in tandem with her need.
Arlo had stopped talking and looked deeply into her eyes. What she saw mirrored her own desire and fascination. It was obvious to Jules that he was indeed feeling the powerful attraction, too. He was as smitten as she and his arousal was as achingly present as hers. He could not hide it if he tried and he had no intention of doing such a thing. Heavy sheets of rain lashed at the window as they slowly leaned toward each other.
As lips parted and tongues met, the most spectacular sensation surged through them both. It was stronger and much more sensual than the zing from their earlier handshake. Whatever few reservations they were still holding to were now completely abandoned. They impatiently fumbled with and tore at one another's clothes with desperate hunger. They broke from kissing only when absolutely required.
Everywhere their bare skin touched, erotic electricity snapped and sizzled. Tendrils of supernatural longing raced and spiraled between and within them like currents. Their senses moved together as if they were celestial dance partners following ancient choreography only the two of them were ever destined to know.
Arlo's eager hands cradled Jules' bare cheeks and lifted her onto the countertop in one fluid movement. Her arms and legs reached to greedily encircle him as he moved toward her with animal intensity. The storm that ensued between the two rivaled the raw beauty of the summer storm raging around them.
The power that had been unleashed that day changed the landscape of all they thought they knew. As they continued to explore the principles of thermodynamics together, Arlo was confident he had at last located the source of the anomaly.
They learned everything that energy release between two humans was meant to be.
In theory, and in practice.
Psych Eval
When I was twelve my aunt taught me how murdering was different than wanting to murder someone.
She said that if wanted to kill the president that was ok, as long as you didn't do it. I don't think there is anyone I've truly opened up to. I don't know why she said that. But I look back at it now and by god I hope its true.
"Have you ever lied to a psychiatrist?"
"No."
"Have you ever lied to anyone?"
"A few times but only small things. Like, whether the milk had gone old," I shifted in my seat and smiled, "or whether I had eaten cookies on my bed." The psychiatrist sitting across from me smiled. "That's good. It makes sense. We all lie about those things. I'm asking you whether you lied to your mom or other important people in your family about... " at this he paused and bit his lip, as of not sure what he should say. "hurting them?" I finished. He head dipped to the side and he made an expression that seemed to express remorse and resolve at the same time. He had wanted to say did you ever lie about wanting to kill them, but thought it might be inappropriate because I was in a emergency psych eval for suicidal tendencies and other things…
"I'm going to go talk to your mom for a few minutes and I might speak with your dad. I was hoping he might get here soon, maybe clear things up." I nodded and smiled. When he left I curled up in a corner. I stared at the window; the only thing that wasn't black or white. I think when I'm bored, so I started thinking. This room's colors had been chosen to calm the inmates. It was green (the chair) but it was a grass green that wasn't too bright so it wouldn't be distracting.
I rehearsed what I would say in my head, not really worried about it though because I knew I could get away with anything. I replayed the scene in my head. My little sister was in the car. My mom was blaming me for hurting her. She parked in a parking lot. She was angry. I was angry. She stepped out of the car, supposedly to calm down. I saw her call my dad. His name and number showed up on the car Bluetooth. I heard every minute of what they said. My mom was concerned that I was going to hurt her. She said I was hurting Elly emotionally by having 'this conversation,' in the car in front of her. I buried my head in my hands. I knew I was hurting her, but it was worth it. I had to protect myself and I had to protect her. My mom was dangerous and I knew it. My dad mumbled about not doing anything extreme and then she started talking about taking me to a mental hospital. “Is she taking her medications?” my dad asked. “Yes,” my mom responded, “but they're not working.” Now she turned it off speaker, realizing what was going on. “I'm taking her to (a mental hospital).” she said, closing the door from which she had just unplugged the speaker from the car. A few moments later I saw her hang up. She took some time to calm down, take a few breaths. During that time my little sister asked me a question: why do you hate our mom?
"I don't hate our mom. I just have some angry feelings towards her."
"then why don't you love her anymore?"
"I do love her." I said. If I had been a more emotional person I would almost cried. Instead, I concocted a response that would help my sister understand as much as she could. "I said I hate mom. I didn't say I didn't love her. You can feel both those things at the same time." I smiled, hoping she understood I wasn't trying to be the bad guy.
That memory brought up emotions in me I couldn't comprehend, things I knew all too well: hate, fear, envy, hope, love, desperation. That last one was the worst. It made me do terrible things I didn't regret.
The man I had been talking to earlier came back in the room. "How are you doing?"
"Good," I said, nodding and showing just enough emotion for him to think I was scared. "Just been sitting here."
"Kind of boring in here, isn't it?" he smiled and half shrugged, apologizing for the inconvenience. I knew why it had to happen. I had been suicidal before. I knew anything could tip you over the edge.
"let's discuss why you're here."
"Yeah..." I said, squirming a little bit. A flash came back to me of me practicing my emotions in the mirror, learning to smile and hide my tears. I had gone outside a second later. My mom didn't notice anything was wrong. A week later I wanted to throw myself out a window. Back to the present. He was staring at me as if it was not possible to understand how I could be here if I had such a perfectly normal mom and dad. White parents, rich house, everything seemed right What was going on? Counter: I wasn't always rich. I remember arguments about what to buy us at Christmas, asking if they could afford gifts at all. I remember my dad being so tired after two days at work, no breaks. I remember him getting angry because I wan't scared enough when he yelled. He was frustrated I had left stuff on the floor. Even at seven I knew he wasn't wrong, he was just tired. I played the little girl, waited for him to stop crying. Told him I was sorry and said I just wanted him to come home, I just wanted a hug. It was all true, but it didn't match the expectation for disappointment or the plan I had when I sat myself on the couch in full view of the door. Get out of your head! I told myself, you have a job to do. Lock in. Luckily the emotion in my eyes played into the part well. Girls weren't supposed to be strong. I knew what he was already expecting. Everyone is human, even psychiatrists. I smiled to myself, knowing I could out play him, and started speaking. "My mom is wanting me to stay at her house and I want to go to my dads. I was upset because she wouldn't let me go away." I buried my head and tucked my legs against my chest. A sob (deep breath) caught in my chest. He nodded. Go on, he seemed to say. "We were in the car. So was my sister." I squeezed my eyes shut, rocking back and forth in the single, small chair I was given. "And ," (gasp/hiccup) "I was asking my mom... to let me go home. I hate being at her house. She's not a real mom. She's... she's... she's..." I buried my head deeper and started trembling for lack of a better word. He just nodded and stared at me. "What happened after that?" he asked.
"She said she would take me to a mental hospital if I didn’t stop"
"Stop what?"
"Stop..." I took a deep breath and made myself presentable again: back strait, arms by my side, voice in normal range. I took a deep breath. And then another one. I looked outside. "She wanted me to stop yelling in front of Elly."
"Why?"
"Because she didn't want me to hurt her!" I carefully let my face dissolve and show every emotion I felt. "I want to tell mom how much she's hurting me, but every time I try to Elly’s in the room and I can't! Or she finds some other excuse, like..." I waved my arms around as if searching for something. "My brother." I flopped down. He looked at me, concerned I had said I was being hurt by my mom. "It's nothing serious!" I reassured, "Just emotional stuff." Here my voice got weak, as if I didn't think I should be upset. "I just needed to change something. I can't keep just let her hurt me without say something about it." I ducked my head in shame, "even if it does hurt Elly." I stared outside the window again. He was trying to let me rant, I knew it. Get it out if your system. I heard someone say in my mind. I wasn't letting him fix me. This was a delicate game; be upset enough not to have to go back to mom's house but be sane enough not to be locked up. The man across from me shifted, fidgeting almost as much as me. I knew what this meant. He was a nerd and his text book of psych advice wasn't helping him now. It was just bare bones human emotion, my territory. I just stared at him for a while. (people get uncomfortable when you stare. I learned that one not too long ago) He asked me a few more questions. I said my mom was bad and I was just a girl trying her best in a world not meant for children's idea. He went back to my mom and dad's room. I heard mumbling through the door. I didn't want to listen. I knew they'd be arguing and worst of all: I didn't want him to think my mom was sane.
I was let out of the room after about thirty minutes. I didn't have a clock. They had taken all my devices away. Me and my dad went home. We stopped by my mom's car on the way out. My dad saw the pile of trash sitting in the passenger seat. "What happened?"
"It didn't hit her. I wanted to go to your house and said if she didn't let me I would keep putting things in the passenger seat. From a few seats back. On the highway."
"Did you tell the psychiatrist about this?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I didn't want him to know I was hurting my mom."
"Elisabeth, you didn't hit her with anything." he said, staring at the sky in bewilderment.
"Yeah, but we were on the highway and Elly was in the car."
"How does being on the highway make it dangerous?"
"I could have distracted her and made her crash. That's why I didn't hit her with anything. I think my aim is pretty good. I'm surprised I hit every shot." I surveyed the pile, noticing its height. My dad looked disgusted. "What is it?" I asked. He waved at the seat and slapped his hand to his forehead. I knew what he wanted to say. A trash pile that reached two and a half feet high. I remember my cousins making fun of me for how messy our car was: food on the floor, three week old garbage. I remember my mom getting upset at me for not cleaning it out while she 'cleaned the kitchen'. I remembered the other time she said that. I had made the yard presentable while she watched Tik Tok on the bar stool. I could see it through the window. The whole two hours of it. She asked me to help clean the kitchen when I came inside. No, I had said, disgusted. With five minutes left she was still scrolling as she put things away and yelled at me for my inadequacy. I didn't come out to talk to the guests that night. She still won't admit she did something wrong. Just a few hours ago she had denied the fact that that scene ever occurred. She denied that I was suicidal. She denied that covid was gone: keep them in the house forever! She had told me she wanted that. Said she wanted us to live with her forever, never growing old. Our husbands could move in with them and we could all sleep together. I shuttered. "Do you want some Indian food?" My dad asked. "Yes." I nodded. The thoughts were closing in; a knife to the chest. Ignore them, push them back but they keep coming anyway. Three years later and I still dreamed of the end. I still remember every day at school when scissors sucked me in. I remember the terror I felt when ever those urges wouldn’t quit.
The Stone Cutter
The Stone Cutter
July 24, 2024
The war waged for generations
Soldiers went to fight
Soldiers went to die
METHEW chiseled their names in marble
Solely for posterity
METIN, METHEW’s son, took to his profession
Wielding the tools of the trade
Taking his time
He learned the art of stone cutting
He learned the consequence of the craft
When METIN reached the age of manhood
METHEW’s name was called for war
This day was not unexpected
METHEW had made all the arrangements
METIN accepted his new duty
As the days became months
And the months became years
Few remembered METHEW by sight
Fewer still, by skill
METHEW became a story of days long since past
One day, a messenger arrived
Today, with just one card of condolences
Only one name appeared on the card
Written in ink, in a font
Of preposterously curved letters
For the eulogy
METIN carved METHEW’s name
As all great names should appear
In capital letters
With harsh angles and straight lines
METIN’s son, MEFAN, wept at the service
It wasn’t derived from respect for his grandfather
It was derived from knowledge of a cycle
In which METIN gave MEFAN his first chisel
And the time in which to become proficient
Family Isn’t Blood
When you said,
Family isn't blood,
It's who you choose to let in,
I was in the back seat of your car
When you had never been the one to pick me up.
Tears streaked down my face,
And I had just asked why the devil and I couldn't get along.
I hadn't called you,
I had called my Angel,
But there you were.
She must have heard the panic in my voice,
and called you in her own panic.
You dropped everything to pick me up,
even though it was before your waking hours.
I should have known you loved me then,
For a man so unyeilding to upend everything.
But there was always that doubt,
That poison that stops me from saying those words even now.
So when I saw you for the last time
And you also said the words "I love you,"
I should have let you in.
The Blank
clutching the heart
you say it is
plain
as vodka day
that the hole
is big
and dark
flocked
gapping black
a mouth crimson
lining
burning lack,
a dying sound...
But no
I counter
no, no, looky here
slapping the paper,
an infant, metaphorically
the hole, as it were
strictly speaking
is off white,
a smoking gun
07.23.2024
The biggest hole in my life... challenge @dctezcan
A muted tone, a fade to a hum. Prose. Radio’s Number 56 and Mavia.
Mavia sent in number 56, which features two writers and her signature sound.
Stay awhile, have a drink...
Here's the link to the show.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rk0jDiU7WBw
And we'll link the authors below in the comments.
And.
As always.
Thank you for being here.
-The Prose. team
Heroes
My cousin
Who grew up
Learning disabled
With two alcoholic parents
His father
A retired Navy man
Treated him
Like an indentured servant
And would punish him
By burning
His little hands on the stove
In spite of it all
My cousin
Grew to be a man
And had a family
Of his own
Then there was
Gary Plauché.
Leon Gary Plauché
Was the man who shot
His 11-year-old son’s
Karate instructor in the head
When he found out
That the piece of shit
Had been molesting him
Then there was Robert Rule
Robert Rule
Was the man
Who forgave
Gary Ridgway
In open court
For killing his beautiful
16-year-old daughter
Gary Ridgway
Would ultimately
Be convicted
Of slaying 49 women
Robert Rule was truly
A vessel for God
Then there are those
Who get up everyday
And do what they have to do
Without hurting others
And still make time
To extend their loving
Kindness to strangers
These are my heroes
David Burdett
12/11/2021
The Plover
Looking for a spot to be alone he wandered north
Rocks became a dried crust of mud where trees and grasses accustomed to inundation and summer drought made their home
Bound by the shore of the river he focused downward, not outward
Determining a spot to be, just for a while
He had left work behind, no one knew he was gone. No one would miss him
This will do
A westerly wind blew through the river gorge to the plains in the east shaking the wildflowers in a jubilant dance
He settled into a spot, the flowers becoming a quivering layer of purple and gold at eye level stretching a hundred feet
On his seat he overheard a plover’s cheep
Her dear man replied in kind upon the sand
And the human man faded from this place
On fleeting feet she checked the sand
And peered around the land for danger
And “cheep” called to her man
And with flowers jiggling and plovers peeping the human man un-faded back to this place for a bit and considered the wind blowing and the sun shining
He watched the plovers and wondered why they always filled him with such a strange sadness
Like a sweet red juice leaking from a fruit on a tree. One that had suffered an unexpected cut and had not yet scarred. One no one would eat
A single note, no song, but a call, filled with worrying love. A desperate call saying over and again “I don’t know what I would do without you.” She cheeped to her man
And he called back “I am here my dear, and yes, I don’t know what ever I would do without you”
And they each peered around for danger
The human man watched their feet as they scurry and stop and watched their round eyes as they check for danger. And their cheeps squeezed the juice in his heart as the flowers shook and danced faster than one could ever perceive
He felt the space. The space he had chosen as his seat
He felt the sun and he felt the warm air
And though it blew around him he felt it wrap him and squeeze him tight
He felt what the air was made of exploring the surface of his skin and explore beneath it and explore the sadness in his heart
The delicious sadness that he never wanted to let go of
He wanted it to burst from within and run slowly to the sand, but he never wanted to let it go
He felt the heat of the sun and what it was made of
Exploring the side of his body from the south. Touching the stuff he was made of and making its way in and through as he faded again
He’d taken the path of purple and gold, a blur of jubilance at eye level. And on into a cheep
One which could be considered brief but could be ridden to the source for as long as one could stand from the plover to her man
She called “I don’t know what ever I would do without you”
He called back “Yes, my dear, I am here. And I don’t know what ever I would do without you”
Ode To A Prizefighter
Don’t panic
Don’t crumble into a foggy lagoon of tears
Don’t shiver under firecracker skies
With its tiger roar sonic boom
Or be dashed inside
From night’s crooked smile
And vacant moon
You’ve got nerve, my friend
You’ve got gutsy punch
And electric storm fury
That barrels through
The razored maze
And
The needling briars
Of brutes and bastards
Who want to tank your ship
Through the greedy storehouse
Of their petty mutinies,
So hold on to the wheel
And the invisible calm
Knowing that the absurdity of life
Is all the better
For you being in it,
And may your transparent heart of glass
Blind the dogged scoundrel
And flood the malice eyed adders
Hungry to bruise your heel,
For the self loathing beasts
At war with themselves
Despise a ravine of purity
And may their towers of rabble rousing Babel
Plant themselves face first
Into the Godsmacked realities
Of black and blue earth,
But don’t write your epitaph
Or realign your course,
You’ve only touched the simple depths
Of a universe of worth
Alive in the kindness of your eyes
And in the beautified candor of your words,
So keep sweating blood
If you must
But saints preserved
Keep pushing on,
Wave your die hard flag of no return
Because I think you absolutely matter
To God
To us
To art
To the world
To the neighbouring prisms
That reflect the stellar outline
Of a diamond pearl
That shines
That is you
So onwards you prizefighter
And steady
To ready
To deaden
The calloused nerve
That pinched you
In its boxing cage,
But break down the gates
And let the world
Hear the resurrected songs
Of your valour
And make it
A revolution
Of love,
Saturn’s return
That dries up the frenzied
Scalds of hate,
Now onwards
Now on!
Swings Both Ways
Imagine my surprise when I awoke to see a door standing in the middle of my bedroom. I don't know if I heard it or dreamt it, but I heard, "If you open it, you'll go anywhere and time you wish."
I got out of bed and approached the door. I slowly opened it enough to see myself peaking at me from the other side. Truth be told, "he" probably saw "himself" peaking in from the other side.
Where did I want to go? Where did "he" want to go?
I realized I was in a very good place at this point in my life. I was raising two happy children, had earned the love of a good woman, and peace and contentment were ours.
"How 'bout you?" I asked "him."
"Yeah," he agreed, "I'm good, too."
"We" closed the door and we each went back to bed.
When I awoke, the door was gone. It never returned.