"Shit girl, come give your uncle Todd a big hug!”

Todd is not my uncle. I do not want to hug him nor any of my mother's “friends”. My mom likes to party so she brings these scumbag guys around and expects me to be extra friendly with them. Hugs and kisses. Laugh at jokes. Bring beers. Sit on laps.

No.

These guys say inappropriate things to me like, ’If she's old enough to bleed, she's old enough to need...‘ or ’If the field has grass on it, let's play!’ and my mom does NOTHING. She just does her little fake-ass laugh and tells me to lighten up.

I hate every single one of these disgusting bastards. I also hate my mother for bringing them into my 12-year-old life. I feel powerless over my life and who is in it right now.

There is one adult who is different. He is named Dale. Has has come to my rescue several times when others have tried to grab at me or speak to me in their crude ways. Dale is not gross like the others.

There are times he has picked me up from school because it was raining or my mother forgot. He drives an old Ford pick up truck. I call it a "potato truck" because it makes the sound 'potato-potato-potato' when it idles. Dale says he'll teach me to drive it someday. Dale is very nice to me.

I hate Dale the most.

All his kindness helped me figure out that he was, in fact, my biggest threat. Yes, I was young, but not foolish enough to believe his actions were altruistic. I think that eventually, once more trust had been established, he would be the one to attack me.

He wanted it that way— for me to trust him first. He was careful, persistent, and patient. Like a coiled snake watching a clueless mouse. It was just a matter of time.

Luckily, he never got the chance to strike. He got arrested later that year and went to jail for a long time. I never found out the nature of his crime, but I could guess.

Thank you, God, for looking out for me. Certainly none of the shitty adults in my life were.

It’s true

an apple

never falls

too far

from the Braeburn tree,

that’s just how Gravity works

unless,

it's picked

and carried away

by Someone

who stopped to appreciate

the potential

within its center,

or if by some miracle

it catches the right roll

on the right day

during favorable weather,

and it continues onward

until reaching the very end

of a rugged and winding footpath.

It is only then

that the destiny

of it rotting

under the same branches

as it’s siblings

will be averted,

and only then

will it become more

than a moldering corpse

atop a grassy grave,

like the fermenting tree

that bore it,

but instead,

be celebrated

for the raw sweetness

contained

just under its skin.

We bought a decommissioned Catholic church on the East coast of Massachusetts in 2020. It was quite the cultural shock, having been a New Orleans boy my whole life. But the kids moved up here and then started reproducing, so I was granddoomed.

It's situated at the end of a little peninsula that juts out into the Atlantic Ocean. The other side of the peninsula is Hull Bay, across from which we can see the Boston skyline 8 miles away, as the fish swim. We get the most spectacular sunsets over the buildings, from our porch.

The place has good vibes. I've lived in places before with bad ones, but this place is a friend.

It's a bit of a money pit, but that's OK. It's rock solid, on a hill of granite, with a lot of heavy mahogany inside, everywhere. When I tell people my place has cathedral ceilings, they don't think I mean 30-foot ceilings. Built and dedicated in 1927, the Kennedys and the Fitzgeralds used to go to Confession here. I still have the Confessionals, although one's a half-bath now and the other is a double bookcase with sides flanking the place where the priest used to sit. Oh, the stories they could tell! Sadly, no Kennedy ghosts.

When I see the sun through my stained-glass windows, the end of the day seems a blessing of calm from the cosmos. Sunset is followed by the cool ocean breezes and life is sweet. With all of the scary and horror literature coming out of old places, this place just seems to be, well, a hallowed place of succor. All 14,000 square feet, which includes a smaller chapel where the stubborn Catholics used to still prefer to hear their Masses in Latin.

Each window has a brass plaque with a name, in memory of loved ones who financed them. Many names, but no Kennedys. I looked. They're all long dead, of course; even those who paid for the plaques, to remember their dead, are all long dead, too.

We live with a cockatoo who, as I understand it, has a life expectancy in the eighties. St. Mary of the Bay will outlive me; my bird will outlive me. I wonder if I should pay for a little plaque for me right now in case no one wants to remember me fondly; or even just remember me.

Ah, but theprose.com will remember me. I hope. I wonder what their policy is of keeping material of people who go away for good? Shouldn't there be a section for those deceased that will allow their loved ones to read their material and clomp around in their once-thinking, once-witty, and once-relevant brains?

My agent once told me, "Great books die every day." That may be true in the writing vying for shelf space, but the Internet is--as they say--forever. It may be that once I'm dead and gone, as a five-time failed novelist and a Vogon-calibre poet, my only writing legacy will be here on Prose. It takes archival responsibility to a whole 'nother level. Even if not, the Sun I watch every evening burns out in another five billion years and nothing will last after that, anyway.

I try to write at least one thing each day before I see the sunset through my window or from my porch. It all becomes part of this church, my final resting place. I'm not being morbid when I say that. No, it's my fervent pledge to myself that I will NEVER NEVER move again. Imagine a time in your life where you know you will never have to move again!

I was raised Catholic, and although I'm semi-retired as one, I still value a spiritual side, which lately has been imbued with a quantum sensibility. I'm not ready to sing any swansongs yet, but if everything were to end right here and now, that would just about OK with me.

Just about. I reserve the right to update that sentiment.

The couple enjoyed tending their small, productive backyard garden. Their dog followed them closely as they worked. He was, as often as not, underfoot. He bounded, ears flopping adorably, content with his place in this tiny but strong pack.

When it was their scheduled day for power grid access, they were mandated to watch their quadrant’s assigned news channel for their scheduled "programming". It was a seemingly mindless mesh of sports scores, celebrity gossip, fashion trends, beauty advice, and pop music lyrics. Bubble gum for the brain, delivered in a loop of glitchy, two-minute video segments.

The couple saw it for what it was and they boldly refused. They decided they would not be partaking in the subliminal garbage du jour being served. There would be consequences when viewing compliance reports were run. The couple was unsure how often this was done, but assumed it would be soon.

Shortly after the “Sequestration (For the Common Good) Act” had passed, the couple noticed that every form of media that promoted individual thought or the questioning of authority was gradually being eradicated from the public’s reach. Ironically, there had been a novel written long ago that warned of this very thing taking place. Now, that book was gone too.

In retaliation, the couple created a brazen co-op along with a handful of like-minded neighbors. An illegal “take one, leave one” of unapproved DVDs, VHS tapes, cassette tapes, and banned books. The items were well-hidden, moved often, and never spoken of. It was a huge, albeit quiet, success. Books were the couple’s favorite as the two had always shared a deep love of the written word.

They were happy, all things considered. However, they knew that harsh punishment was imminent for their heinous infractions. This awareness did not frighten them nor dissuade them in any way. Just the opposite, in fact. They flourished with life.

The known fragility of their bliss only sweetened their fleeting time left together. Colors were brighter, food tasted more delicious than seemed reasonable, and sex was out-of-this-world satisfying. With banishment and certain death looming, the pleasures of life now seemed to be amplified.

This was the rhythm of life now: tending the garden, playing with their sweet pup, reading together, sharing wonderful meals, and ravishing one another’s bodies with fervor. It was heartbreakingly simple and pure what they shared.

This was their Eden.

For as long as it lasted.

It has been a long debated issue within the Fantastical Studies community as to which species expels the most pungent waste from their bowels. Over the centuries, researchers have narrowed it down to two species: angels and fairies. Angel experts, and even some angels themselves, maintain that their excrement is far worse than any creature as small as a fairy could produce. Fairies have little to say on the matter, and the argument for their flatulence is made primarily by the groups dedicated to observing them.

One of the things that has made this debate so difficult is the odd fact that angel flatulence is unable to be compared to fairy flatulence and fairy fecal matter cannot be compared to angel feces, either. By all accounts, fairy feces and angel flatulence are nearly undetectable while their opposites have been known to clear all life from royal chambers and even large sections of forested areas. Since the two are rarely found in the same places and both are known to be elusive and finicky creatures, it has taken teams of researchers a rather long time to collect the data necessary to determine which is more offensive to the senses. Thankfully, after centuries of research and speculation, The Committee for Fantastical Biology has come to a consensus.

Fairies have energy systems that rely predominantly on air and starlight. Their bodies take in the gases from the air around them and uses them to stay lightweight so their wings do not have to work quite as hard. The starlight is absorbed through their unique layers of skin and gives them the energy needed to zip around the forest. The fairies then supplement themselves with a diet of moss and fungi. The waste from these elements are expelled from their bodies in two ways: their skin and their anuses. Fairies are known to "sweat" a shimmery powder, known in layman's terms as pixie dust. Pixie dust has many uses and is sought after by magical practitioners and "rave kids" for its divinatory properties and hallucinogenic effects. From their bowels comes a small but concentrated stream of flatulence that is highly combustible and has been known to cause forest fires as well as asphyxiation in humanoid species. The gas is expelled in bursts, and due to a fairy's constant turnover of energy, it is consistently released from their bodies. Fairy feces is something akin to rodent pellets, typically odorless, and is usually found within close proximity to flushes of mushrooms.

Angels, however, can process any source of light for energy but sustain themselves mainly on cloud vapor. As the vapor travels through their body, it becomes more dense and exits in a more solid form than which it entered. Angels who are consuming pure, clean clouds are likely to have bowel movements that smell something similar to static and are hot enough to burn through steel. But due to the constant pollution in Earth's air, more and more angels are consuming cloud vapor that is riddled with harmful chemicals and gases. While angels have a very effective detoxification system that allows them go unaffected, these toxins are expelled from the body in sludge-like clumps. Like fairy farts, these toxic clumps are highly combustible and make it very easy to know when an angel has visited Earth.

It is a logical conclusion that due to the similarity in the energy systems and consumption habits of angels and fairies, the two would be very strongly matched in the way their bodies function. However, since fairies still rely on some sort of organic matter to thrive, the official consensus is that the decay and eventual expulsion of used organic matter from their bodies makes their waste more pungent and therefore smellier to more beings. The Officials for Angel Relations have stated that they are divided over the findings, as some angels feel shame over not surpassing the fairies while others are only further convinced of their superiority. There has been no word from the Folks for Fairy Affiliation, but sources have stated the fairies do not particularly care about these results.

The Committee would like to note that in their research, it was revealed angel feces contaminated with toxic cloud vapor can cause cancerous cells in humans. If discovered, please contact the Magical Waste Unit as soon as possible to ensure proper disposal. If you are in the forest for long periods of time, please be sure to bring Committee approved gas masks in the event of a strong wave of fairy flatulence and of course, always check for traces of fairy gas before lighting campfires.

Forgiving, cleansing, no. Instead, regretful musing toward an immovable frame, cloudy skies lingering beneath our feet, feasting upon mournful rays, the intention to illuminate, to unbury oozing, weeping, rotting, to pull despair from its hallowed ground- forcing currency from weakened, bankrupt, infantile souls, your thorn-prick unpaid.

Forget, forgot. Pause.

Resurrection drains you, too.

Let the dead grow weeds.

In the way that you mourn for the past-- dying embers floating lonesome, seeds

burning into the shrouded night, like you, like me. it carries not comfort of warmth-of worth- but burning, singed skin flushed with spiking chemicals and fraying lace, so seductive in its familiarity, raging temptress of poor resolve

You, me, arrested

dance atop the angered coals

Moonlight, she deceives

7/18, lucid dreaming for the first time in a while

exploring with my husband, jumping from a cliff into water. a neighborhood with a giant red barn, apartments with long walkways

random people with clear, specific faces

leaving town. can't find food.

we stop at a lodge with zig-zag tiles

people are friendly, we buy tickets and walk into the cigar room. grandma's there, and the owner of the lodge's young daughter

they both hate the events

my own daughter is therebefore toddlerhood began to straighten her jaw. we sit there for a while, peek outside to see men bludgeoning rabbits

I relay what I've seen to horrified reactions of varying degrees. there are people I don't know. eerie silence. The men leave to investigate, my husband leads the pack.

he takes our daughter with him. I sit with grandma, nervous

I want to smoke my cigar, but can't

I go to grandma and kneel down. she tells me to blow my nose, the southern way, so I do

I hear a baby crying, open the door

it's my daughter, lying on her belly crying, bodies littered around. she is stained with soot and blood but unscathed

I don't remember much after that

discuss further in next week's session

Unexpected downtime, I thought that we might play

Instead you pace and want to flee

Why can you not just stay?

I thought this was a good place to be…

Nowhere to go on this rainy day

Here with me

Yet I can feel your love decay

And sense your longing to be free

Why can you not just stay?

But other places you long to see

And your nerves, they seem to fray

Here with me

“Out there” seems to always outweigh

Time only spent with me

Why can you not just stay?

I wonder how long you’ve felt this way

A rainy day-- the truth exposed, I only have this plea:

Why can you not just stay

Here with me?

I found my prince on our first date.

You made me feel that you would be

A husband always worth the wait.

You brought our dog's new mate,

A pup, into our home, I could see

I found my prince on our first date.

Our tiny place, a grand estate

Seen with eyes as you see me

A husband always worth the wait.

Clouds grew dark, and life a weight,

Then I'd for you and you'd for me.

I found my prince on our first date.

When sticky grief would not abate,

Safe in your arms I'd long to be,

A husband always worth the wait.

A pup put spring back in my gait,

At last, anew a family;

I found my prince on our first date.

I thank the stars for my bad fate

It brought me you and made us we

I found my prince on our first date,

A husband always worth the wait.