“Letter Unsent: For You a Thousand Times Over, Hassan”
My beloved Hassan, Assalamualaikum. After years of denial | returned to Kabul only to know that death chose you before me. I came back to where I left and you left a part of you for me. I don't know if l could ever amass the courage to choose to stand in front of you right after i left you in a war, around and within. Sohrab has your eyes, he has let my guilt dissipate a bit and here,now I see the war is far from over. God chose you for me ..the brave for the cOward. If there exists a place where I could hold you warm and tight for one last time, a place where you never meet war just know i want to belong there. If you ever comne back l'd read this out for you, over kebabs out in the pomegranate field. f you ever come back we'd make it to "Hassan and Amir -Sultans of Kabul". We'll make the kites fly higher nonchalantly, and let them go to places we don't know exists and this time I'Il bring them back for you..".For you a thousand times over, Hassan."...i wrote this as an extended version a letter Hassan would never receive. 2231
Hello! It has been a while! My name is Victoria. On my previous accounts, I was known as both TeddyBear9979 and VictoriaBowman. However I am in the process of getting rid of that old account. For anyone who doesn't know me, allow me to introduce myself and if you do know me, allow me to re-introduce myself.
I started writing when I was 14-15 years old. It became my main coping mechanism and helped me work through some really bad habits. I mostly write fantasy but I also used to vent as well in my writing. Some of you may have remembered that I introduced another Proser to the site and we happened to have been together at the time, we are no longer together.
Prose was one of the few places I found support and people encouraged me to continue writing. This was where I got the idea to write my book A Collection of Short Stories and my mutuals were very supportive. I've gotten sage advice from older Prosers who've been around the sun more times than I.
Since I fell off, I've dropped out of college and I've met some awesome people and realized that some people just aren't for me. I am now married to an amazing man who wants me to pursue my passions and has even offered to help me with several of them.
Anyway, I am back and look forward to re-kindling the flames of my heart and I hope you will join me in this new chapter.
yellow is my favorite color
It’s a bottle of grenadine - sweet like spring.
It tastes like the cherry soda they serve at Goolrick’s.
Downtown. We were 21, walking through the cemetery.
It was Wednesday.
Me and Sean and Carolyn and Courtney.
We talked about picking out plots there to be buried together
in the least morbid way you can talk about death.
The sun still shines brightly, casts yellow rays upon us.
We are still alive, so alive, more alive than yesterday.
Downtown. we browsed the antique shops, picked out dresses for imaginary occasions.
I bought that seashell purse.
It’s black and beaded.
We took the long way home, didn’t go through the cemetery.
I think I wore yellow that day.
My grandfather's laughter wasn't a complete stranger, but a passing acquaintance. It was spare and sparse, doled out like a prize, and never given freely. A thin smile was the reward for a job well done, an impressive feat, or a particularly clever wordplay or joke. Laughter was a rare sound he could almost remember how to make when conditions were just right.
Smiles and chuckles were easier to earn when light would sparkle on the current running towards the ocean. Sadness was an abstract idea left moored in far away ports when he retired as a stevedore; sadness was an abstract idea left to wither in empty classrooms when she found retirement of her own. They were happy in the years that they walked the sun-dappled banks of a winding Southern river, and sadness was the color of our world when she left us behind. His good humor was laid to rest on an October day that was also their wedding anniversary.
I once asked him why he stopped being a fireman. I think of that conversation every time I pass that fire station in the old historic district of Savannah.
"The smell." That was the only explanation he offered. The only other clue to his reticence was when my mother or father would grill, he'd never come outside until dinner was served and the grill was put away. The man himself didn't own one.
Before retirement, I would stay with them in the second house they ever bought together, where they finished raising one daughter after the eldest had wed and moved on. I can still remember the blue carpet in the dining room and the grapevine that ran the length of the garden in the backyard. Every summer, he'd toil for the spoils of the earth; riches gathered were golden corn and the rubies of vine-ripened tomatoes.
I can vividly recall the slices of tomatoes in contrast to the Fiestaware, freshly creamed corn pooled to turn those slices into red atolls in a yellow sea.
On most of these overnights at their pre-retirement house, I'd wake to find a paper bag of freshly baked donuts. He would have to be at work at some inhumane pre-dawn hour, but he'd always leave just a little earlier than normal so that he could bring donuts back to the house for his grandson. I was always fascinated with the fact that he was there when I'd go to sleep, but then mysteriously gone when I woke up, and I never heard a thing.
I've since walked a mile in his footsteps, having known work that occasionally required inhumane pre-dawn hours. I'm still in awe of his ability to stay awake through the 11 o'clock news and then rise at some mysteriously masochistic time.
He showed affection by doing things. Providing. Entertaining. Not necessarily talking. He'd take me along on trips to the store; I always liked going with him more than going with my grandmother, because she knew the definition of the word "No." He'd always let me come home with something extra, something unnecessary. Something I wanted but never needed; there were always new toys to be had, and I'd leave some of them in the cardboard box I kept at that river house.
On one of these shopping trips, he introduced me to something that, unknown to either of us, would change my life forever. He bought me a Daisy Powerline 860, a BB repeater and a pellet air rifle. It was fairly low-powered, but to a six year old, it was a mighty weapon indeed. He taught me how to use it, he taught me how to respect it. He gave me that rifle, and a little red Swiss-army knife that he got for free with his Old Spice holiday gift pack. I still have both.
I would wander the banks of that river for hours with the knife in my pocket and the rifle in my arms; tin cans and tree trunks trembled and feared my name, and the river herself would let me skip shots like stones.
A decade later, I don't think he was ever as proud of me as when I brought home dinner for the first time using those skills he first taught me on those banks. I think that laughter is what's kept in a bottle in my memory, and I open it from time to time.
Stoicism. Self-reliance. Organization. These lessons he taught me by example, and everything combined with what he taught me with that Daisy to help make the man I am. All of these skills are some of the reasons why I'm still here today, and others aren't.
It wasn't until years after he left that river for good that his laughter became as much of a stranger to me as I became to him, but the memory remains.
As I watch September nearing an end...
I think back to August and am unable to truly differentiate
For you see my friend
The temperature today is predicted to be a "cool" ninety-eight.
The crispness is not felt, but is heard in the air
it is provided by the crunching of grass beneath my feet
my lawn is to the point where I think it just does not care
I water and water until the green does meet
Talk of fall and pumpkin spice
does not interest me
Sweet tea with lots of ice
Good ol' Tex Mex is what I want to see
August and September
One month just blends in to the other 'round here
It seems to have been hot as long as I can remember
Thank God for AC - Amen, let out a cheer
I am used to the heat
and truly grateful for the winters we see
with no deep snow or cold icy mess, they just can't be beat
I am looking forward to the 70s and 80s of December and January......
I can't lie, if it happens to come in a rush, I won't mind....
9/15 // september (i must to survive)
a swelling sadness
growing deep within my chest
(pulling, pressing, pushing)
seeping into everything i
i should have expected less
(i should have been hurt by less)
i know it’s not your fault
(it feels like it is, though)
why did you keep
pushing, pressing, pulling?
why did you keep
going, even beyond the initial wound?
why did the disappointment
curdle in my stomach,
grab me by the throat,
twist the knife in my stomach?
i tried so hard to
not expect, to not
hurt at the absence,
but i did! my silly heart
my silly heart—expected
too much, wanted
too much, and it aches—
(WHY COULDN’T I LET IT GO! WHY CAN’T I LET GO?)
five days until
my birthday. i want to
rip my heart out, set its beating
aches and wants and wishes aside
for the week. i want to let it go,
i want to stop expecting people
to do what they’ll say and
say what they’ll do and
care enough about the
silly, inconsequential date and i
want to just!! stop feeling so awful
about it all.
can’t i just have a birthday
and have it be nice?
why am i so sad about this!
i should have expected this!
i shouldn’t be hurt by this!
(can my heart)
(just take a break)
(for five days)
i’m going to love and enjoy and
cherish deeply each day of
september. i’m going to love and
enjoy and cherish deeply each
day of september. whether i like it or
not, i’m going to love and
enjoy and cherish deeply
each day of september. i have to i have to
i have to! i must to survive,
as i was cleaning out my email last week, i stumbled on some old notifications from prose, and realized it's almost been two years since i've gone on here. it's been a combination of being super busy, school stress, and just not actively making time to write. i forgot how much i love being on this site and just how helpful writing is, so i really want to start making an effort again. it's good to be back ;)