prose

Dancing at the Tavern

The tavern was particularly crowded that night. Droves of friends and strangers pressed together around both bars, and many others huddled in one rippling mass outside around the puny, near-useless fire pits that were placed haphazardly throughout the patio area. The pool tables were mostly unoccupied, but every bit of space around them had been eaten up by people, young and old alike, who had come out that evening to drink, dance and socialize.

The room furthest back had been converted into a blinking, pulsating dance floor yet again as the first Saturday of the month came upon us. A projector had been set up and was peering out of the DJ booth, displaying that new Tucker & Dale Vs Evil movie on the blank, right-hand wall. It was widely ignored of course, especially considering the fact that you couldn't hear the audio. The music belched out of the overhanging speakers and pushed the dance floor's tenants into a frenzied, semi-rhythmic march into and around one-another; pushing and bumping, grinding into every warm, available body and denying every grounded piece of etiquette that tells you to keep yourself to yourself.

After consuming just enough alcohol to shed my ever-present hesitation, I followed my friends to the center of the dancefloor and proceeded to do a sad, other-worldly approximation of dancing. I paid little attention to anything and anyone around me, as I've been to enough bars, parties and whatever else to know that for the most part, nobody's going to really notice that I'm there. The night went on as it generally does, and we had a fair time. I became more and more intoxicated quickly and decided that making a fool out of myself sounded like fun. I jumped in the middle of a nearby dance circle and pretended like I knew what I was doing. A girl laughed, asked me my name and told me to keep going. I didn't, and told her that she should get in there and dance instead. She did, and I wandered away, forgetting almost instantly that she had even spoken to me at all.

Most of the evening slipped by without any significant happenings at all. No one else spoke to me and I chose to hover as close to my friends as possible, like I always do. I danced for as long as I could; eyes closed, smiling wide, ignoring everything and everyone around me. In many ways, I didn't really understand why I was even there. I was wasting money on booze and I wasn't talking to any girls. But I was shaking my ass and moving my feet - I suppose that counts for something. After blowing a little over twenty dollars and finally closing my tab, we regrouped and prepared to take our leave. Just then, a couple of old acquaintances of ours emerged from the back room, arm in arm, both heavily intoxicated and in a jovial mood. One of them was an old ex-girlfriend of mine who I've sort of re-familiarized myself with over the past year or so. Though my memory at this point starts getting a bit vague and blurry, I do remember speaking to them, leaving the tavern and getting pizza, and then being invited back to my ex's nearby apartment to hang out and drink a little bit more.

Her place was typical for a young college graduate living in the trendiest part of Cincinnati's underbelly: high, vaulted ceilings, wood floors and the constant, ever-present sound of creaking boards and echoing footsteps. We sat in her living room, doing nothing in particular. I watched her and admired how pretty she was, and how she had finally grown into herself. She watched my friends and had the same thoughts.

We left. Though I don't recall doing so, I had apparently messaged my ex and told her that we should get together some time soon. When she promised me that we would, I asked her if she was simply saying that to quiet me, as every girl I know makes promises like this and never, ever follows through. She was honest and told me that no, she probably didn't mean it. In the same message, she also decided it would be best to let me know that my friends are really attractive and that someone really needs to let them know. According to her, I'm cool too, but those boys, they sure did finally mature into something special. Make sure to let them know, Rob, or give me their numbers so I can. Make sure to let them know.

That is quite literally the last thing I remember about my Saturday night: that text, and all of the wonderful feelings that accompanied it. I don't know if I should be hurt and I don't know if BEING hurt makes me an overly-sensitive little boy, but it's not like it matters.

People wonder why I'm so down on myself. I wonder about it too. I'm not sure why it started originally, but it only gets worse as more and more members of the opposite sex display their apathy regarding me. They're never very shy about it; in fact, some of them are exceedingly vocal about their opinions, and man, it fucking hurts. It hurts bad. I wish it didn't; I wish I could simply let it roll off of me and know that "It's just one girl. She doesn't matter." But no, everyone's words tend to slice into me just a bit, even if they weren't really meant to.

My ex sent me another message the following day. She apologized for what she said (or rather, how she said it) but also chose to reiterate her point, stating that she "Meant it". I have to say, at that point, the apology doesn't really fucking help.

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The Monkey Man

The grass that we were so used to was coated in two feet of snow. No green was visible beyond the radiance of the white, and it felt as if it would devour us whenever we leapt from the safety of that same old play-set that had always been there. The schoolyard hadn't changed in any way that we could recognize, and there was something comforting, yet disturbing about that fact. We were high schoolers now after all; life was basically about change. All you heard from every person that had authority over you was that change was coming - nay, happening constantly. You just didn't know it because at the time you were far too stupid to notice. That was their job in fact: to lift your veil of naivete and youthful stupidity so that the real world could smack you in the face with its dick.

Soon enough we would all be driving. Some of us would have our own cars; some of us wouldn't. A few of us would acquire our first jobs early in life, while the others would wait a little longer. Girlfriends and dates would start becoming much more commonplace, and curfews would be a thing of the past in the very near future. Booze and marijuana would suddenly be a constant presence, and we would all react different to each strange experience or temptation that came to call over the next few years. But at that very moment, we were just a bunch of teenagers with nothing better to do than to sit on a playground from our childhood. And sat we did, for hours even, just so that we could talk about better days.

There were five of us there, I think. We had already made our way through the woods behind the library and had actually taken the time to visit the other play-set on the opposite side of the school grounds. I hadn't set foot on that patch of blacktop in over a decade. By the time we had found our way to this shabby pile of metal we used to climb all over as children, we were already a little bored and ready to leave. Nostalgia be damned, am I right? But that's when we saw something... Rather odd, across the field. Along with the two I've already mentioned, there was actually a third play-set outside of the elementary school; one that the "big kids" used to occupy pretty much exclusively. Instead of hard concrete or blacktop, the ground surrounding the giant, twisting slide and firemen's pole was covered in that strange mulch that always seemed more appropriate for a hamster's cage rather than a child's play area. To the left of that was a handful of benches facing the nearby soccer field. In the middle of all of those benches was a strange figure that none of us could quite make out. We were a good hundred-and-fifty yards away, and had to strain our eyes to even confirm that it was, indeed, a person. Or at least, something that had the vague size and shape of a person.

We all began to argue about what exactly we were seeing. Somebody thought that it was a tree stump with clothes piled on top of it. Someone else insisted that it was alive. Whatever it was, it was clear that it was wearing a huge bubble coat, some sort of beanie and what appeared to enormous white goggles that dominated its face. Eventually we fell silent, and chose to simply watch the thing to see if it would move eventually. One of my friends quickly exhausted his patience, and leapt from his perch. Without hesitation, he sprinted ahead and proclaimed his intention to, in his own words "Piss on it". One by one we all joined in his charge, but before we could even begin to close the gap, the oddity ahead of us began to run back and forth along the tree line at a furious pace. We all stopped dead in our tracks. It wasn't his speed that confounded us; it was the fact that he was running on all fours.

By now it was clear that he had the body of a normal human. Despite his behavior, he was fully clothed and dressed to suit the weather. We watched for what seemed like hours as he hustled back and forth, never going further than the playground and only to return to where he had been sitting. What was even more disturbing was that it was clear he had been there for some time, apparently just watching us as we enjoyed our day out in the frigid cold. None of us had even thought to glance in his direction the entire time. Why he was there and what his intentions were, none of us will ever know. At the time, none of us were even concerned. Here was this person- a man as far as any of us could tell; moving like a crazed gorilla that had been rotting in a cage for years.

And suddenly, he departed. With his incredible and completely inhuman speed, he swiftly broke free from his insane loop and thrashed his way into the woods behind, still moving entirely on hand and foot. My friend wasted no time pursuing him, and we reluctantly followed. Now understand that my friend was extremely quick back in the day, and at first he seemed to be catching up to whatever we had just seen. We followed him as he tracked the hand and footprints in the snow, only to stop abruptly as he yelled in pain. We caught up and found my friend completely engulfed by a large and menacing thorn bush. He had been so focused on tracking the creature that he neglected to keep his eyes ahead, and had ran directly into the brush without slowing down. After pulling him free, we did our best to regain our lead on the man-beast that had gotten away from us. We scanned the ground beneath the bushes and found that hand and foot prints continued through the thorns and on to the other side. Doing our best to avoid the angry green needles, we cautiously slid by, only to find that the tracks had stopped just past the brush.

We continued our search through the small patch of woods beyond the playground, but to no avail. A wealthy neighborhood lay just beyond the opposite tree line, and several children a few years younger than we were had been playing in a backyard. We asked them if they had seen or heard anyone or anything running through the woods, but they said no. We ventured as far into the woods as we could, but eventually we simply wound up in another phantom neighborhood. Confused and somewhat frightened, we returned to the school grounds. An hour later, our ride arrived, and we left.

A few of us still talk about what happened and speculate on what the hell it was we had seen on that peculiar day on that same old playground. It was seven years ago now, and still the memory remains as clear as day in my mind. After a while we began to refer to the baffling figure as the "Monkey Man" and the name just sort of stuck.

If you're out there, Monkey Man, and you're honestly just some guy that is way too good at running on all fours: you seriously need to get a damn hobby.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This seriously happened to me when I was a freshmen in high school.

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Writers Bloc

Writers Bloc

Writers Bloc



To pen a requisite best seller. A book of 5000 items. Alphabetically enumerated Chapter and Line each Rhyme exquisitly enhanced a TickerTape parade the key to the BIG Applette a spot segment on television next, the Royalties paying for the three car garage and house in Beverly. Hills melting into Dales and RIlles into The Big Valley. The Picket Line Fence was just unwashed logs stacked up then down in a COnfederate hilarity. Men exposed to Muskett fire and no retreat a fight to the death the Gray line mostly homespun uniforms just slacks and shirts some short jackets many men were hatless. Anger rules a Battleground fear of death and Anger rules a Battle. My shin splintered I twisted my leg and stood swinging my Muskett like a BillyClub made of Iron and Wood. The line kept advancing. I could see now that there was no way out. I swung the Muzzle of mye Muskett UP underneathe mye chin. Reached down and pulled and calmly blew mye Brains out. No YellowBelly Yankee was gonna RUIN me. I gave a Rebel Yell. I fell. The Battle Markers placed the crosses one for PFC Darkstone at the battle of Shiloh near the old Pickett fenced. It just says a Confederate Soldier died here in battle. The battle of Shiloh was mostly Union Forces under General Sheriden. General Philip H. Sheridan was one of the Union's most celebrated commanders.  He was a cavalry officer, and perhaps more than any other Union Officer, he fought like a confederate. It was the Cival War. The year was 186(?) "War is Death" said Sheriden to the Darkstone Confederate as they buried him. You may be thinking of another General a differant General Statesman. Perhaps a similar General Statement. Try General Sherman who may have said War is a General. CLose so close but a little off can you remember what he really said Gentile Reader You. Writers Bloc.






Author's Notes/Comments: 

a made up pulitzer prize

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EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON

EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR A REASON





Everything happens for a reason. Nothing happens by chance or by means of luck. Illness, love, lost moments of true greatness and sheer stupidity all occur to test limits of your soul.



Without these small tests, life would be like a smoothly paved, straight, flat road to nowhere; safe and comfortable but dull and utterly pointless.



Sometimes a person will come into your life and you know right away that he or she were meant to be there…to serve some sort of purpose, teach you a lesson or help figure out who you are or who you want to become. You never know who that person may be but once you lock eyes, you know at that very moment that they will affect your life in some profound way.



And, If that someone loves you, love them back unconditionally. Not only because that person loves you, but also because they are teaching you to love and open your heart and eyes to little things. Make every day count. Appreciate everything with that person that you possibly can, for you may never experience it again.



Talk together as you have never talked before, and actually listen. Let yourself fall in love, break free and set your sights high. Hold your head up because you have every right share in the highs and lows of the emotion that is the essence of our lives.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Not really a poem but rather some "Dime Store" or in this day and age of inflation "Dollar Store" philosophy that might make a point.

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Not Just A Word

Trying to find the right words to say

without making a total ass out of myself

without meaning something insincere

but trying to say something sweet

I know it'll take a while to trust me

and you know it'll take a while to trust you

there are "prettier" girls out there

but they have a heart non-existing

stuck up within their vanity

not living, but just there to be a pretty picture

eye candy that will destroy you and leave you broken

ten thousand minutes destroyed within a day

destroyed by a thought, a kiss, and a yes

I am sweet and short, but not simple

I have the complexity of a rubix cube

you just have to find my combination

I am kind, affectionate and loving

I am easily hurt, so please be gentle

I just need a place to rest my weary heart

no, not just simply a place to keep it, a permanent residence

A someone to give it to, and honestly..

I'm hoping it's you~<3






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City of Joy

Folder: 
Determination

Ok, City of Joy has slums but certainly cannot boast type Mumbai Dharavi, an offshoot colonial legacy. Stubbornly hugged at like an award-winning heritage by obstinate embroils, feeding Boils. Chad Saudagar days who says Calcutta trace to only JC 300 yrs, backtrack? Ah! In myths, rest all lies. Please no archaic digs to rigid theories of historical Pops. Enmesh in wrangles challenge, simply not done!    



Calcutta daze, my school exterior changed colours.



Back green front is pink …



Delta conurbation spans imagination 1964 in school.



Is there reason, not love the slum I grew, picnicking with teacher in Eden Garden? 1967



Our songs we have when by chance together. Alumni



Divergent faith, yet each shot own prayer, yes, here. My school entry adorns.



Newspaper office Statesman shrinks circle, circulation too, heartburn.



Manual workers bunch a pause backdrop eatery T Room at FS & PS joint.



Existing ways, Park Street hawks, honest sunshine.



Shabby Free School Street is immaterial to jolly daylight.



At Park Street, cars puff. Today allow to game, hoarding shouts.



Those tram heydays reduced to ignominy.



Pressures to perform, Tramlines bend.



Basic bridge comfort pedestrian, nothing handsome.



So what if obsolete tuck beams!



Huh! Go we must, underground in Calcutta, yes only to move at ease.



Door to door, he collects discard and Cal kids dread his backpack.  



Why shamble tireless Calcutta? Sweep success wear smiles.



Urban Calcutta to God and Goddess, bow in humility.



Ethnic ways pay respect to them those gone, somewhere unknown.



Is it kitsch pleases Shiva? Temple, leafy flowers, coconut-husk smokes, yet holy.



Why do hitch? Pour sacred water cool the Lord of Spirit in Calcutta Shiva temple!

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Ether

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109 Prose: The Flaw in the Petifore

Have any of you ever had a petifore? I'm pretty sure that's how the word is spelled.



They're these interesting little pastries that can basically be considered cake cupcakes. They often take the place of more grandiose pastries, such as wedding cakes, and they're quite delicious. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, just think of it this way: If cakes were somehow transformed into a hard candy but still maintained its fluffy inner texture, you would have a petifore. I still am not entirely sure that I'm spelling that correctly.



They were served at my cousin's wedding a little over a year ago, and my Mother also brought some home today from my sister's baby shower. I had forgotten that they even existed, but enjoyed them all the same. They even come in those odd outer wrappings that plague the innocent little cupcake.



This is where the flaws begin.



I recall this same issue from my cousin's wedding: the icing on the petifore will always stick to the paper, therefore tearing the dessert to bits when you try to remove its personal prison cell. Not only that, but salvaging the bits of edible matter from the inside of the wrapper is all but impossible, and can be incredibly frustrating as it often takes with it a good portion of your petifore.



Injustice.



Personally, I prefer cake to petifore(s) as cake signals celebration, while a petifore is almost like a mild euphemism. They taste great, true, but not as good as a wedding cake that is so pumped full of sugar that it could effectively be considered toxic waste. While I have become much more concerned about my health, I don't see why people feel the need to absolutely butcher their diets in order to lose weight or maintain some kind of image. I don't think really think that petifores were the product of such beliefs, but they'll most likely become a part of that sort of paradigm.



I'm just ranting now. I do not apologize.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I have no idea if it could.

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237 Prose: North by Chris' Watch

In about two weeks or so, I'll be out of this city. I'll be up north, learning about the area and what makes it what it is. I'll be looking for a new source of income so that I may do what has been planned, and move into a house filled with music and creativity. I'll become thinner, most likely because I won't be eating very well more than anything else, and I'll do what I can to learn what exactly has gone wrong within me. I'll be free to do so because of all of the spare time I'll have. The only person that I'll know starting out is my roommate; which is a good thing, really. It's funny to refer to him that way: roommate. For two months, everything will be left behind. In Rob's apartment, I'll only have my clothes, my laptop and my cell phone. In that time, I'll slowly and quietly learn how to operate a life that is away from the friends and family whom I have known for my entire life.



It's not necessarily an irrational decision; impulsive is really more of an appropriate wording. I have a few thousand in the bank and I'll get a couple more paychecks before heading out. I'll be staying in the apartment rent free and without any of my furniture for two full months, and if I manage to get a job in that time it'll just be that much more money I'll be putting away into my savings. Hopefully I'll be able to find something active or at least somewhat labor intensive. My current workplace has helped me lose so much weight, and I'm a little worried that I may gain some back if I get a really slow or stationary job. Overall though, I'm excited.

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Soaps

Cleanliness is next to Godliness



It is not about T. V. Soaps but soaps alright



As per earliest proof of soap, manufacture dates back relatively 2800 BC in Ancient Babylon. Around 2200 BC Babylonian Clay tablet scripted soap properties that held water, alkali, and cassia oil.



Ancient Egyptians habitually bathed with soapy matter, mix of animal and vegetable oils alkaline salts, Papyrus (Egypt, 1550 BC) specifies.



Confusion records soap in ancient Pompeii, with soapy mineral substance discovered in ruins. Strigil (metal scraper for body after oiling) method in Roman baths perhaps causes these doubts. My point is why is it not possible that both use existed?



Attribute name soap supposes to bogus Mount Sapo, Roman connection, its location unknown. Actually, soap making process involves cold process method, or hot process. Heat required for saponification in both cold process and hot process.



Purification and finishing removes sodium chloride, sodium hydroxide, and glycerol brings finesse with Nanoscopic metals added for coloration and anti-bacterial properties.



Soaps, today, are offspring of historical Arabian soaps. Arabian soap was perfumed and colour, some of the soaps were liquid, and some solid. Special soap for shave sold for 3 Dirhams (0.3 Dinars) a piece in 981 AD.



Al-Razi, Persian chemist, documents on formulas for real soap. 13th century manuscript uncovered recently features more soap making techniques like, mix some sesame oil, a sprinkle of potash, alkali and some lime, bring to boil.



Industrial Revolution changed small-scale coarse soap production to commercial. In London Andrew Pears pioneered high quality, transparent soap in 1789.



Much later, 1960 personally remember Mommy’s fine Pears on skin, nostalgia havocs, like pounding grinding the soap with a mortar and pestle to produce soap powder, 1837.

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