I came to Prose to write.

I stay for

the community

I have found,

dare I say,

the friends,

for the writers

who move me

to laughter

and tears,

who inspire me,

make me think,

and feel,

who,

through their

words,

their characters,

the worlds

they imagine

and the

world they inhabit,

let me

SEE them.

I stay

to bear witness

to the tales woven by

gifted storytellers

like

@Huckleberry_Hoo,

@rlove327

and

@SamWebster

whose every next

story

I await with bated breath;

to wordsmiths like

@Mazzmyrrheyes

whose masterpieces

of lyrical poetry

should be mandatory reading,

her work is a treasure,

with every poem

a gem;

I am thankful to have

the ever witty poetry of

@EstherFlowers1

to keep me laughing

or crying

always thinking;

so too,

the rhythmic rhyming

of @fudo who

also tells a great story

(but keeps deleting them);

I stay for the stories

essays

poems

of @BonnieBoo,

@TW, and @finder,

the gutwrenching

pieces

of @undermeyou;

@anarosewoood and

@sandflea68's

poetic flair;

for

@WhiteWolfe32,

a talented storyteller

whose poetry

makes me bleed,

and the prolific

and kind

@Mnezz.

And for

all those

I haven't named

but who have

enriched my life

by sharing

a little of

themselves

here....

It was a

very lucky day

the day

I found

Prose.

Where to start? Where to end.

There are so many great writers here and I have had the pleasure of working with many of them over the last two years on collaborative novels.

sandflea68: She was the first person to ever comment on my work. Already an accomplished author, she writes with such immense magnitude, you find yourself unable to pull away.

anarosewood: Highly evocative writing that pulls you into her corner of the universe. Prose or story, her work pulls you in, where you don't want to leave.

Clarity: How one so young can write like a seasoned professional and has such a unique way of delivering her characters and scenes that draw you in from start to finish.

SharondaBriggs: Such a big heart she has, and her openness and honesty reflect in her words.

WhiteWolfe32: Young, talented and every bit as prolific a writer as I am. His style can be seen as eclectic and transformative in style.

EstherFlowers1: She is a humorist with a serious attitude. Oxymoron perhaps? She takes on a challenge and gives everything she has.

CalebPinnow: With an inventive mind and energy to spare, he writes in such a fashion you believe his words to be fact and draws you in.

Chacko_Stephen: A young man that has a friendliness toward anyone he comes across and this shows in his words. His wit as well as his serious side shines like the sun never setting.

Roses311Sublime: A religious man with a dark side ... LOL. He loves to try new things from doing voiceovers, to poetry to short stories. He does this I believe to challenge himself with the idiom, "I think I can. I think I can." And when he has, he ends with, "I knew I could."

Samina: Three years ago, or thereabouts, she was a somewhat shy girl getting her feet wet here. Since then, she has gone into graphic design work, creating a group called Inertia Teens for teens who need to talk about issues that are important, and she has her own YouTube channel, but it was Prose, and the support she received here that gave her the courage to expand herself and her writing.

Harry_Situation: He keeps us informed on new films, creates all sorts of challenges throughout the year. In doing so, he helps writers by raising the bar.

Undermeyou: Evocative are her words and they speak truth and a deep-rooted emotion.

Mnezz: Another young, talented writer with a heart of gold. I have found her to always being the first one to make a comment on someone's post.

slnmten: Another accomplished author of poetry who writes deeply and causes you to question what is going around not just in your life but the world as well.

There are others as well that need at least a mention: batmaninwuhan, rlove327, Uschibear, fudo, and HandsOnFire. Each in their own right, write to entertain and at times, have us question our own motives.

And this is where I end. but they do not. They will continue to write, to entertain, to grab the heartstrings of our being.

Prose ... count your blessings you have people like these here.

I close this with something I posted last September.

When The Right Write Is Writ

Ramble I will with words far and near,

setting the tone, page by page,

stopping long enough

to enjoy a glass of beer.

Late into the night,

phalanges do fly,

clacking away at letters,

getting each word right.

Add-delete-add-add-add ...

delete-delete-delete,

a never-ending process,

until finished, it looks like a mess.

Hour upon hour,

day after day,

a paragraph here,

a chapter there.

Days, weeks, even months

travel past my thoughts,

until that singular moment rises up,

and the write has been writ.

No one else may know but you,

that giddy feeling that crawls through your being,

knowing you have reached deep down

and pulled from your soul ... perfection as you see it.

800,000 words.

5,000 ideas.

300 people.

They now sit on a shelf awaiting you to read.

I think another beer is in order.

A writer new to me has held me captive most recently with a spillage of ugly truths from the shadow side of humanity. His words are hard to swallow the possibility of, which is the hook that sunk me. A great writer delves into the human psyche to dig up and reveal bits of ourselves so that we can see our Reality. However twisted it may be, if it strikes a chord, the author has fulfilled his purpose. To connect. So often, words are careful, subjects avoided, or only vaguely referred to. Not with this writer. He is brave. No, courageous. Bogdan Dragos. Check him out.

I am not going to tip toe around this. BonnieBoo's titles have to be some of the most ordinary, clichéd, and familiar phrases around. They grab your taste buds like chicken noodle soup, a hot dog, or a banana. Most people crave them at least some of the time. Inside the prose though, you get a lifetime supply of gourmet meals of your choice. BonnieBoo draws me in and fools me every time.

Hello my pen name is FreshwaterFish

I am not a dish

But I can tell you this

Prose ain’t no swish swish b#%?!

I am not a daily visitor of Prose

That said these are the names that I chose

Finder and Misplaced_Pen

In Finder you will definitely find something

That gives you a zing

The eyes don’t see it but

The brain keeps going ding ding ding

Well in Misplaced_Pen

Welcome to the lions’ den

You don’t know what you will find

A bar ,a rhyme or just grime

So readers viewers whomever you are

I am FreshwaterFish

And my pen is my shooting star.

There’s a story in the New Testament Jesus tells of the prodigal son. It’s about a man who after squandering an inheritance and wasting a portion of his life returns home to his father and is forgiven.

In short it’s about a man who leaves home to search for home, only to find in his experience the stuff of whale bellies and darkness, before finally returning where he belongs.

***

I used to write here on Prose pretty regularly under the username of Mfrobs. Why I’m back with a new name I don’t truly understand myself. I wanted a fresh start, or a clean slate for some reason although I cannot fully identify that reason.

I haven’t written anything going on two years now. I tried to put out my stories into the world of pristine literary magazines and it turned out to be a waters so deep whales swallowed me whole. I’ve learned I am not the writer I’ve always believed myself to be. This acceptance of information initially gave me an awful Blues from which I thought I’d never recover.

I am hoping that my return home means I’ll write again. I’m excited to write again for the first time in a long time. I remember that same stroke of electricity when I first came to Prose a couple of years ago before I left for deep waters I reckoned were greener pastures.

I believe Prose to be a home for the record of my prose, like a catalog of stories. Like a one man literary magazine of sorts.

It’s an act of joy, an act of creation and should be treated as such. I don’t have to make a living from it as I always dreamed it, I just have to do it so long as I’m living.

So I am back as the writer formerly known Mfrobs. Now as LeotieReview.

There are some writers on here who in my year-and-a-half or-so of absence never escaped my mind.

***

Rlove327 is a professional. Plain and simple. When you read his work, you can tell he’s polished and published. You can trust him as a reader, meaning wherever the narrative goes, no matter what, there’s a great reward. It’s a simple concept and rare quality.

What’s maybe more than this is his determination for encouragement.

He was the first to comment on one of my stories.

The first time Southern Icon of a writer Barry Hannah read Flannery O’Connor, he was immersed in her abilities to deliver grotesque imagery with such power and grace.

I felt the exact same when I delved into the stories of BonnieBoo. She can do it all. From highly technical prose to the trashiest of narrators, she always swings for the heart and always lands.

It’s a cliche but has never been truer than when speaking of Huckleberry_Hoo that he is the last of a dying breed. He writes with a Mississippi mud and gritty punch that I strive often to do myself and fail just as often. He makes it look easy.

KMCassidy is a common soul, like a long lost sister. I always look forward to her posts because they stir the soul and expand the mind. She is unafraid to speak her truth and always does it with grace. She inspires any who read her.

There are many more writers on here I know that I’m missing and I could delve deeper in describing each of the ones I’ve mentioned, but it is enough for now to honor those who I’d say are the reason I could not stay away forever.

Wherever I stray I reckon my home will always be here at Prose. It gives me that fantastic energy so necessary or vital for a writer, that you can write anything, that anything is possible, if only ever-so-briefly, in that moment of the act of writing, that feeling of the world being released from the weight of your shoulders and being slid down into the weight of your palm.

There is no poem that can tell

How hummingbird wings

Make of time a useless ornament

Their motions formed from it

Their beauty enameled in it's

Element- and yet divorced from it

And separate, azure fields of motion

Through the moment but thoroughly

Threading together all of it: into

Singular motion melted

A poem holds not the secret

Key with which it climbed formless

Air as if it clasped upon bars of iron

In swift motions

Yes,

A poem can hold no telling

And yet as this descending

Night can never blot from

My mind these images so

Also I have contrived

The impossible- hoping

To outdo time, premising

It on leaving each verse

Written artfully

To leave even one mind still

Burning, that even one thought

Could trail beyond the province

Of this paper

And even as I started writing

The night has already begun

Descending, and on the day

I wrote these things just

As every other day the nectar

Of life was slowly fading

I could try to bejewel it

With shards of beauty

But regardless what I was

Doing each moment the

Tumultuous ending was

Still molting;

And so I wrote this poem

Hoping to leave some

Part of me trailing

Beyond my ending

@mnezz @estherflowers1 @tk @clarity @quietsilence @vyxyn

are all my favorite...why? because they are simply awesome, every post I read from them has me on my seat wanting more, it has me feeling, thinking, and I always light up whenever I see one of their post!

Down below is one of my favorite pieces I have done!

The Danger Of Silence

How could anyone face the silence alone?

The silence caresses my face

And in it’s native tongue it says “I’m here”

At times silence will become a poet

Never saying anything but leaves a suffocating feeling in it’s place

Crowding into my space

A small grin on It’s face,

wordlessly it tells me “It’s here to stay”

I’m scared to speak

As I write this story

Teardrops slip down my face

Before they can hit the page

The silence collects them in a jar, like rain

And then he would label them with the word “Pain”

Everyone thought that tongues were the sharpest of swords

But the Silence killed them without saying a word

The silence takes your fears and brings them here

We all have the same fear

Not of Death but of our names being plucked from the air

The fear of the Silence that surrounds things that are just no longer there

The silence knows we are afraid of him

But its only makes him smile a blood thirsty grin

This is why we write our names on everything we ever made

Because we are all prone to forget

And so we hope that someone will stumble upon our stories

The ones we have doctored and worn down with age

We hope that they’ll find what we have left

Our names upon the cover page

And just for that moment

It will be as though we’ve beaten silence and cheated death

That in the whisper of those words

We have taken one more breath.

For some life is a story, full of adventure.

Full of romance and drama, full of friends and family.

Full of joy, full of dreams.

For others life is a dream, or rather a nightmare.

Filled with what seems like endless suffering, filled with loss.

Filled with creatures with untold appearances, and terrifying ideas.

And within these nightmares, there's always a light.

To mock us, to give us hope.

As it slowly fades, into the surrounding darkness.

Untill we are left alone, on the streets of life.

Left to cry alone thinking, about what we could've done.

To reach out to the light, to become noticed.

At the station throngs

walk about their day

headed towards their goals.

I hear for their songs,

but no tune will sway

me to what they know.

Some faces hurry

by, while others glide

and still - nothing new.

How I would scurry

towards wisdom's guide!

My path, though askew

takes me from that place.

I follow laughter

to an oasis.

"This park seems the place

where wisdom gathers,"

thought I, rapt in bliss.

The congregated

sat, those well-to-do,

displaying their wealth,

and how they've grown fat!

Their hullabaloo

deciphered in stealth

yielding dull gossip.

Praising themselves while

berating their friends.

Turned up nose and lips

deforming their smiles.

All towards what end?

I run to solace.

Cathedrals, temples,

mosques and synagogues

all regurgitate

from the judgmental

sounding catalogue.

It is then I choose

to bring Love to life.

Not the emotion

which fades all to soon.

Action - born from strife.

To Give, that alone.