The New Prose Is Still A Work In Progress, I Think
With recent changes it is looking like Twitter, verging on Instagram, and just the other side of Facebook. Too convoluted. Nothing like the "Old Prose". No center or bold. Pictures half-covered. Half the time it doesn't let you post properly. Bring back the Old Prose as an option.
Many features on the New Prose are good but there are people who use their phone to get on and last I heard there is no APP for that either yet.
Too many bugs in this, and to disband the "Old Prose" without thought to how other Prosers feel, It's disheartening.
Chapter 22: Opportunities of Settling and Remembering
Father Stranger, Oliver wrote before crossing it out. No, stranger was too harsh, he thought.
It was true that much of his childhood had been spent without his father. But to call him a stranger now would be erasing all of the memories that they had managed to make. A younger version of himself may have seen him as a stranger, but Oliver now understood that his father’s absence was never from a lack of care but because he had no other choice. Whether it had been for his country or to provide for his family, Chadwick never stopped caring and this was what Oliver had learn in the last two years of getting to know his father.
Oliver dipped his pen and started again: A tribute to my father, he wrote, thinking of what had gotten him to write this piece—the letter that Aunt Diana had read aloud moments ago.
June 3, 1842
It is with a heavy heart that I reply to Tyler’s letter on the news of our brother. He was beloved by so many as one of America’s heroes and a treasured sibling; that was something Chadwick and Rosie had in common, both adventurous souls who, as I used to say, were very in tune with nature. It was inevitable that Mother Earth would take them sooner than us.
I do very much understand how you are feeling right now; with my twin, Rosie, gone and William back at sea, my world is truly very small as of present. I cannot fault William, however; your letter had arrived after he had left, and my husband loves his ship.
Perhaps you and Oliver could visit me for a while. Owen can manage the newspaper now that he is older and has experience of his own. I would love some company, Diana, and Chadwick wouldn’t want you to wallow in his passing. He wanted you to remember all the memories that we siblings made together and be happy that he lived rather than grieve his passing.
The sea air here is also very calming for the soul and I’m sure Oliver would love it; many writers have been inspired by the great sea.
I do hope to hear from you soon.
Forever your sister,
Tyler was wondering how to contact James; no one had heard from him in years. But he was the only one old enough to decide what to do with the farm. Oliver would be staying with Tyler and Diana because he was too young yet to manage a farm.
“I suppose Paul could run it for the time being,” Tyler said, watching Diana, who was still sobbing on the couch.
“Have…you thought much on Flower’s offer to visit her?” Tyler spoke gently, aware of how fragile his wife was at the moment. “We could go just for a little while; I think a change of scenery would do you well.”
Diana looked up at her husband; she didn’t want to go—how could she find the strength?—but Tyler was right and, as Flower said, maybe Oliver would enjoy the sea. “I suppose. I have yet to visit Norfolk.”
Tyler smiled at that; it had been the most that she had said since reading Flower’s letter. Hopefully, Flower would be able to help with finding James.
James was on the Oregon Trail with a wagon train of a thousand pioneers; after he parted ways with Blue Snake, James, along with the other soldiers, had continued to force the Cherokee to the west where all soldiers were dismissed on arrival. James’ instinct had failed and left him wandering again, alone. He had heard a rumor that Blue Snake had joined the tribe members that had escaped removal by hiding in mountain caves and dens, but all the same, he knew to seek his brother again would be to walk toward death, and so James trudged on.
He had returned to his old ways when he caught word of the organization of a wagon train in Missouri. It was to be the biggest one yet and this had been the third time that James had heard of these wagon trains. His interest had been more than sufficiently piqued when he met Jesse Applegate, the man who was now the leader of the wagon train.
Applegate had told James that if he had nowhere to go, he might as well join the wagon train. The man knew that James’ horse could be an asset for the journey. Applegate had spoken of gold and the great potential of western Oregon; it had all sounded very good. But, of course, James was beginning to wonder if this journey would really be worth it.
Many of the pioneers wanted the land, a homestead. That wasn’t what James wanted and this journey had turned out more distressing than he could have guessed. It wasn’t the risk of bandits, Indian attacks, or even disease that worried him. What worried him was one of the most pathetic things. The travelers of the wagon train would park their wagons in a circle at night as a makeshift stockade. A stockade that reminded James of the Cherokee, and now every night when the pioneers drove their animals into the stockade, James would see the Cherokee and their lashed backs, their screams as they were driven into the stockade.
James had watched the men round up the tribe and he didn’t care then; he didn’t bat an eye when his mother had died or when he had shot those travelers…so why? Why now, after so many years, did some wagons in a circle cause these emotions?
June 21, 1843
Hope was reading a tale that Oliver had written while the boy sat next to her. Oliver had started coming over every week since returning from Flower’s home and he would always bring some of his writing for Hope to review.
“Another very good piece, Oliver; you have described my mother’s home so beautifully and I can see the influence from Edgar Allan Poe in this one,” Hope said, finally facing Oliver to see him smiling a happy grin.
“I thank you. Edgar Allan Poe is my favorite writer.”
“Is that so? Well, how would you like to meet him?” Owen said while keeping his eyes on Samuel and Maria—the two had been little troublemakers since the moment they’d learned to crawl.
Oliver stared at Owen with bug eyes. “Meet…Edgar Allan Poe?”
Owen and Hope looked at each other; they were amused by this youth.
“Yes. I’m sure you know that he published a book today, and so the journal has secured an interview with him and…I also got him to agree to review one of your stories during dinner tonight,” Owen said.
Oliver nearly collapsed hearing this. “Oh, my goodness, I must hurry home and decide what I want to show him!” The boy barely finished uttering the words before he was out the door and away from the chuckling older cousins.
February 17, 1844
Dear Mother and Father,
I apologize for not writing to you until now. The last few years have been very bizarre, with my best friend dying on the journey and myself having married his wife, Roberta. Truthfully, the thought of marrying Roberta hadn’t felt right at first, but Frank had left us, and I had grown fond of Roberta and her children.
Know that I am well and have settled at Sutter’s Fort, where I work as a tanner in the area. The work of turning animal hide into leather is truly fascinating and has acquired me a few friends. I am currently drinking with them at a tavern, which is how I’ve been able to send this letter, actually. The barman informed me that this tavern also acts as a cheap postal service; rest assured, taverns are not places I visit often—they are much too far from the fort and we are only here to celebrate a friend’s fortieth birthday.
My friends are very merry, but Captain Sutter…he is a stern man that rules his fort with an iron grip and the fact that he built this fort for the sole purpose of making himself a monarch is something I have yet to decide on how to feel about.
Hopefully, this letter reaches you. I don’t know when I’ll be able to write again, but how are things at home? Does William write often? And what about Hope? I do miss you, Mother, Father, and my siblings.
Your loving son,
May 24, 1844
Samuel Morse Sends America’s First Telegraph
For years, letters have been our only companion
for distance communication and so it is with both
excitement and the slight unease of an aging mind
that I tell you of the first-ever telegraph sent from
Washington to Baltimore today.
The message was “What hath God wrought.” Ominous,
but it brings about much opportunity…and some adjusting
for me to get on with.
William was sitting in front of the college of dental surgery in Baltimore as he read the article his cousin had written. Dentistry had been a truly amazing field to study; it was one that William had wanted to study ever since his father started telling tales of pirates knocking sailors’ teeth out and he had told those very often—so often, in fact, that William sometimes wondered if this had been a form of conditioning, but of course, it was not.
He had always had an interest in science and, combining that with his attention to detail from a childhood of constructing model ships, dentistry just made the most sense to him. William looked at the article again. Baltimore and his future were certainly appearing promising.
Written By: LiannaC
Wildflowers for Eyes
Κανένα σπουδαίο μυαλό δεν υπήρξε ποτέ χωρίς μια νότα τρέλας
“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”
’Everyone in this forgotten town believed the way to achieve immortality was to have their names written down.
But not just by anyone.
Only the hand of a poet could determine your immortality.
Men traveled over the land, in search of a poet;
So they could boast of their fame, and good deeds.
But the poet’s paper stayed empty,
The poet spoke slow and clear, for his words were for all to hear;
“These stories do not tempt me.”
Fergus put his pen down, he looked down at the small excerpt he had written for a story. Pondering momentarily with his worn and calloused hands stroking the snowy white beard; his eyes crinkled slightly as he built a whole new world in his head. A few moments passed and he slowly picked up his pen, and dipped it in the ink, and continued on just as he was before. He wrote on and on as he drifted farther and farther from reality, from this world. Fergus was no longer a being of earth, but one of a different dimension.
A different world, one that he had created.
In this world the church bells never stop ringing,
A world where if you listen closely you can hear the dead singing,
'Is it to late to ask for forgiveness,
The man upstairs is our only witness and he doesn't sympathize'
Fergus recognized this world as his own creation.
His creation where everybody falls apart when it gets dark.
Where the buisness men step over bodies,
and the children are playing with ashes instead of poppies.
All of the characters were here in the land that he created with a pen and some paper.
All but one.
Fergus had taken his role,
Determing who lives forever and who is forgotten.
Red roses filled the streets, as Fergus looked around at the chaos that ensued.
Ashes fell from the sky on this dreadful day,
While bodies all around were starting to decay.
And in the middle of it all a woman layed; on the soot colored streets, her hands tied with stems from roses, the thorns cutting into her pale flesh.
The womans body was bloodied and torn,
And in place of her eyes were roses, wildflowers and thorns.
Fergus’s father had always told him,
“A little bit of madness goes a long way, but just enough can make something beautiful.”
Fergus never made it back to reality.
He was found with stems tying his hands together and thorns in his hands.
And he had beautiful roses and wildflowers for eyes.
His pen was shoved down his throat along with a note.
'All of the greatest writers fall apart when it gets dark,
Their minds running uncontrollably.
In their work piece by piece you will discover dishonesty.
We are just puppest on strings
Fueled on the lack of creativity
Here, I find myself in this world I have created telling another poets story, all the while the roses thorns bind my hands and punturce my lungs.
But I regret nothing,
In fact I embrace it.
Here with me the greatest man who has achieve immortality, who has been trapped in a story forever in a time, he has told me “That no great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”'
A Look at Cancel Culture
Cancel Culture. Two words that have taken on a new and somewhat twisted meaning. But let’s break this down, shall we?
Cancel: Making a conscious decision or announce that (a planned event) will not take place. Neutralize or negate the force or effect of (another).
Synonyms for cancel: annul, repeal, rescind, revoke, abolish, nullify, quash, set aside, make void.
Culture: The arts and other manifestations of human intellectual achievement regarded collectively. The customs, arts, social institutions, and achievements of a particular nation, people, or other social group.
Synonyms for culture: literature, music, painting, philosophy, civilization, society
way of life, lifestyle, customs, traditions, heritage, habits, ways, mores, and values.
As you can see by the words listed, separately, these words in no manner describe what is now referred to as cancel culture. Those two words are forever lost on human ears because someone decided it was high time to rid the world of what they consider interlopers meaning a person who becomes involved in a place or situation where they are not wanted or are considered not to belong.
A modern form of ostracism in which someone is thrust out of social or professional circles–whether it be online, on social media, or in person. ... Notably, many people claiming to have been “cancelled” often remain untouched and continue their careers as before.
Now, after looking at both sides of the coin if Cancel Culture is more apt to mean someone who is a bully and a person who would say, “My way or the highway”, I have to consider the breakdown of both words and in my own humble opinion have to say if we continue using cancel culture to the extremes we are, then we might as well start with music, painting, writing, sculpting,.
While we are at it, let’s just eradicate every civilization we come in contact with what we deem inaproppriate to walk the earth. Destroy human values and traditions. Now that sounds like a plan of action.
Millions, no, make that billions of years ago, there was the Cro-Magnon race and also the Paleolithic man and pardon me for saying this, but then one day we became “civilized” and called the races Homo sapiens. Oh my! We changed things then. How dare we be so bold!
But it ended up far better said that way than, “I’m a white caucasian, Cro-Magnon from southeastern Pe4nnsylvania looking for a good woman and a pet dinosaur to placate.”
Getting to the final crux of this though, there are some things worth changing and others that are not.
Cancel Culture needs to be abrogated, repealed and abolished and call it what it is: pitiful and brazen bullying that should have no place on this planet. Cancel culture, those two words, sit side by side with discrimination, racial injustice and prejudice.
I don’t and won’t tolerate it.
It doesn’t matter to me what language you speak, your manner of dress, your interests, what time you wake up or go to sleep, or if you drink Pepsi for breakfast and for dinner have Cheerios. Everyone deserves their own place without fear or worry by inconsiderate human beings who think they know what’s better for them.
I’m angry. Angry that this country and other parts of the world allow this to fester and boil over. QAnon, The Good Old Boys, the KKK (yes they are still fluent), and others of their likeness are in part responsible for part this mess. But they aren't the only ones. The Black Lives Matter Movement, the assault on the LBGTQ communities, the in-school bullying; all of that and so much more is responsible, and it’s time we found a way out of it before we are all suffering because of it.
And if anyone doesn’t like what I put here ... too damn bad. I’m too old to be scared of words or threats.
After all, you can only kill me once.
The World of Ing
We all have in us an ing.
It’s a thng.
A wrong word said has us cringing.
We dance, we sing,
we do anything,
Life is one big ing.
# 8: So who Said …
Ever wonder who came up with certain phrases we tend to use in our everyday lives? Here are a few.
To coin a phrase means to invent a new saying or idiomatic expression that is new or unique. However, the term to coin a phrase is most often used today in a sarcastic or ironic fashion, in order to acknowledge when someone has used a hackneyed phrase or a cliché.
The first use of the word coin as a verb occurred during the 1300′s, referring to the process of stamping metal coins with a die. The verb coin then evolved into describing other things that were newly made, and by the 1500′s the term to coin a word came into being. Shakespeare wrote in his play Coriolanus, produced in 1607: “So shall my Lungs Coine words till their decay.” The expression to coin a phrase didn’t appear until the mid-1800′s, and seems to have been an invention of American English.
24/7: It lists its first reference to 24/7 as from US magazine Sports Illustrated in 1983.
The man to use it was basketball player Jerry Reynolds and he was talking about his jump shot. This is when a player releases the ball in mid-air and Reynolds said his was “good 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year”.
Off with his head (Richard III) -Green-Eyed Monster (Othello) – Love is Blind (The Merchant of Venice) – The game is afoot (Henry V) – Wild Goose chase (Romeo and Juliet) - Seen better days (As you like it) – Good riddance (Troilus and Cressida() – Lie low (Much Ado About Nothing). You may have guess by the plays in parentheses, the coiner is none other than William Shakespeare. He also coined another 56 phrases that are randomly said to this day.
On a bit of a different note, the word “hello”.
What do you say when you pick up the phone?
You say “hello,” of course.
What do you say when someone introduces a friend, a relative, anybody at all?
You say “hello.”
Hello has to have been the standard English language greeting since English people began greeting, no?
The Oxford English Dictionary says the first published use of “hello” goes back only to 1827. And it wasn’t mainly a greeting back then. Ammon says people in the 1830′s said hello to attract attention (“Hello, what do you think you’re doing?”), or to express surprise (“Hello, what have we here?”). Hello didn’t become “hi” until the telephone arrived.
The dictionary says it was Thomas Edison who put hello into common usage. He urged the people who used his phone to say “hello” when answering. His rival, Alexander Graham Bell, thought the better word was “ahoy.”
“Ahoy,” it turns out, had been around longer — at least 100 years longer — than hello. It too was a greeting, albeit a nautical one, derived from the Dutch “hoi,” meaning “hello.” Bell felt so strongly about “ahoy” he used it for the rest of his life.
And so, by the way, does the entirely fictional “Monty” Burns, evil owner of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant on The Simpsons. If you watch the program, you may have noticed that Mr. Burns regularly answers his phone “Ahoy-hoy,” a coinage the Urban Dictionary says is properly used “to greet or get the attention of small sloop-rigged coasting ship.” Mr. Burns, apparently, wasn’t told.
Why did hello succeed? Aamon points to the telephone book. The first phone books included authoritative How To sections on their first pages and “hello” was frequently the officially sanctioned greeting.
In fact, the first phone book ever published, by the District Telephone Company of New Haven, Connecticut, in 1878 (with 50 subscribers listed) told users to begin their conversations with “a firm and cheery ‘hulloa.’” (I’m guessing the “a” is silent.)
Whatever the reason, hello pushed past ahoy and never looked back. The same cannot be said of the phonebook’s recommended Way To End A Phone Conversation. The phonebook recommended: “That is all.”
Chapter 2: Camila, The Way Old Fairy Tree?
With Graham long behind me, I continue on my trail to the fairy tree. The closer I am, the more I realise how majestic she is. She stands like a queen-- firm on her roots upholding a trunk that stood the tests of time. She stands above everything else in her vicinity, with her branches wide like a queen on her citadel’s balcony. If she doesn’t know where Jo is, I don’t think anyone does.
I hover over the cold river, dark and deep, shielding a moon of its own. The moon underneath seems considerably closer to reach out to rather than the one in the sky. It makes me wonder why no one might have attempted the same. I hold myself from investigating the possibility right there, right then. It was bare and empty, after all. What will it change if I successfully reach out?
I am now only a few feet away from the fairy tree. And another few feet away from Jo. I bring myself to a halt when I reach a distance from where she could hear me, “Ma’am, have you seen a little girl?” The fairy tree doesn’t answer. She seems to be stargazing. I decide to ask a bit louder this time, “She is a young girl. She is missing.”
That gets her attention. Not much, though. She asks me something widely different, “Isn’t it beautiful?” I am unable to understand what she is trying to convey. “What is?” I ask. She is a wise lady. The ones with wisdom always make the simple things appear cryptic. Perhaps, it is what this is.
“The stars. The night sky. The cold wind. Look around. With your eyes open.” She says. Is this a riddle? Does she mean that I am not looking hard enough? But where is Jo? The tree continues, “Did you find what you are looking for?” Now, it’s a bit terrifying. Not terrifying. I am not terrified. But it feels weird, like a murderer asking whether their prey is happy tonight.
“I am Camila. And you?” Camila! What? Why? Camila literally means young. And she is old. Way old. Her barks seem to have wrinkles like that of Jo’s grandmother. This is hopeless. This psychic tree is not taking me anywhere. Why is everything so fruitless tonight?
I walk away from her. Some part of me still anticipates a call from behind, finally sharing the relevant details. But she doesn’t. She goes back to gazing at the blank sky the moment I take a few steps away from her. Hopeless. A small blade of grass is called Graham, and a too old fairy tree is called Camila! Who even names these people?
I know the chapter feels like a let-down after what might have seemed like a nice start. I wrote the beginning a few weeks ago, but I could never finish the chapter after that. So, this is much more of a rough effort to get things done rather than a well-written chapter. I hope you guys forgive me for that (: The chapter does follow the outline, just not good enough... I will try and make up to it with the next chapter ^-^ Hope you guys like it!
Good or Bad?
"So, do you want the good news first or the bad news?" She asked.
However, I couldn't help but take notice of her tone. It wasn't the light, airy, melodic tone she usually spoke with. No, this was... different. Darker.
I watched as she wrung her pale, slender hands in front of her body. Her head swiveled left, then right as she tried to look anywhere but directly at me.
And that was when I saw it. It was barely visible at first. In fact, I was sure I'd have missed it entirely had I not been watching her so intently. But slight as it may have been, it was there. Her entire body trembled as if someone had set all of her motor functions to vibrate.
I didn't want to believe it. I couldn't. The only hint of light on this damned desolate ship. The bright, bubbly woman I had grown to look up to, was terrified of something. And I was willing to bet that it had something to do with whatever it was she came to tell me.
"What's the bad news?" I asked.
Happy Birthday Inertia Teens And My Journey with it.
These days when everything is online, memories fleet with time. Capturing every moment in fragments and retaining it forever is tough. I like to associate a memory with feeling. Last year this time of the year. I was hungry to make a change. I wanted to turn every sigh into a prayer to recover the pandemic and everyone’s mental health.
For a long time, my bio statement is a common girl with uncommon dreams. It’s just that I have different dreams than other teenage girls of my age. It’s always a struggle being authentic and putting yourself out online with an idea. And especially with the risk that it’s going to stay there forever. But online memories are circumstantial. People remember the worst and forget the best.
Some lavender candles aroma surround my room like it did last year when I wanted to light a match in the storm. I wanted to be that little spark everyone needed. If that one idea never came to me. I can’t fathom how my life would be today.
What if our ideas were ideas. We might not have smartphones or the internet or you wouldn’t see skyscrapers concealing lovely stars. We never know.
The veins of my ideas were my words. As soon as I learned writing my passions branched out of it. My main folder on PC is titled writing which has subfolders. This basically explains everything I am till now. So I am writing my excitement and feelings. It’s the OG thing I did.
It’s one year of Inertia teens, a mental health initiative by teenagers for educating youth through vivid discussions, literary magazines, YouTube videos, and much more. It’s a new show called Teen Talks that is going to be out today on World Mental Health Day and our 1st Birthday. https://youtu.be/lPu4nxeAJXw
However, this post is not for bragging. It’s showing all the hard work I am proud of. It wasn’t a cakewalk. It was in fact a rollercoaster of emotions. I learned everything from scratch which is pretty hard especially with other priorities like school, writing, designing, etc. I am learning to appreciate myself a little more. This is one of the first steps.
On an ending note, one of my favorite artists once said, “The world’s not perfect but it’s not that bad if we have each other and that’s all we have.” I am so thankful to you all for being such an important part of me and my growth. Please continue to support me!
Guess Boo: Madness
We won't enjoy living together, but dying together won't solve anything.
This ain't no Sunday picnic.