Would this be considered prose, or poetry? The reason I ask is because someone had told me that I should submit it to a magazine but I don't know what kind, if any would look at it. I write it about five years ago after I had stayed up for a good 30 to 40 hours, I haven't been able to write like it since.

The waters edge, Feathers on the Wind.

The water, crisp, the scent of the lake stirring in the wind. Waiting for that special some one, the sun high in the sky clouds rolling in. It was supposed to be like any other day. A day by the waters edge, love growing stronger. A simple kiss to put ones emotions aflutter.

A silent greeting, a hug hello, skin on skin. The embrace of lovers. Sitting down by the waters edge, staring into the eyes of the one you couldn't live with out. Never saying a word but always knowing what the other would say. Speaking of words never needed. But deep down wishing for the silence to break. Wishing to tell her something important, finally mustering the courage to speak the secret. The secret haunting, tearing away at your soul. Always with you, never leaving.

The clouds are growing closer, larger. Time running out, storm approaching. Opening your mouth to speak, no sound can be heard. Lighting strikes the lake, loud deafening thunder. Ear drums ringing, the sound never ending, on an on. Steam billows, the waters ripple.

Terrified she looks to you, your eyes never meet hers. Splashing in the water, through the thunder, hearing the faint cry. Child in the water, splashing and splashing, can’t stay afloat. Calling for help, choking on the water. You look side to side, no one sees, no one hears.

Pointing to the water, a sharp gasp, she sees. But can’t help, too far out. Ready to jump in, taking off shirt, shoes. No too far to swim. Nervously, its time. The only way, taking a great leap. Hoping she understands, hoping against hope. Your secrets about to be out, will she praise? Will she admire? Or will she fear.

She sees you, a question written across her face. She knows you can’t swim fast enough. She knows you would never make it. Mid-leap, something begins, something happens. She sees, confused. Feathers. Great big black feathers, falling in your wake. Wings, she sees large wings. Her mind, confused, unbelieving.

You glide, inches above the water. The smell soothing, gaining speed. Faster and faster, moving, breathing, alive. Heart racing, blood pumping. Fear of the world leaving, Courage, love and joy growing. Reaching out, grabbing the hand. Pulling the child, holding him close. So young, so frail. A smile growing, happiness bursting forth.

Wind roaring, deafening. Ripping at your eyes, ears and skin. Eyes watering, tears flowing. Vision blurring, the shoreline vanishing. Concentration waning, fear growing. Closer and closer, faster and faster. Almost, almost safe, almost free. Mid hope, a gust. Shot from the heavens, angry and cold. The storm fights to claim its prize.

Looking forward, disbelief strong in her heart. Fear, doubt, how, why. Eyes following you, unable to look away. But something is wrong. She sees in horror, falling, faster. Crashing into the waters. So much speed, tumbling, tossing. Rolling across the surface. Over and over, hearing for the first time. You call out in pain, bones breaking. She hears, she cries, she calls out.

Rolling over and over, unable to tell up from down. Grasping to the child, shielding him. Water, so much water. Tearing at the child, trying to steal him back. Unrelenting, you will not let him go. Finally, slamming into the other shore. Skin tears, bones shatter. Pain, white-hot pain. Tears fall, wings laying on the ground, broken. Blood spilling, the water becomes red. Looking down, the boy. Safe, alive. Unable to move, pinned down. Something, everything, hurts. But more, coughing, blood pouring. Feeling, a pipe. Small thin, piercing through. Understanding, its over. Life of a child, for the life of his savior. Eyes growing heavy, darkness over whelming. Fighting, wishing, to see her face, one last time.

Running, heart pumping. Fast as she can. Legs burning, getting closer. Seeing, but unbelieving. How, when, why. How, when, why. Over an over, tears falling. Love blossomed, but love torn away. Reaching the other side, seeing, red water, a crowd. People stare, but scared to help. What is he, whispers, shaken voices.

Hearing a familiar voice. Forcing open your eyes, trying to look. Unable to see, a splash. Some one in the water. Smiling to see, she has found you. She has come, terror, horror, tears streaming. Her face, pale. Coughing, more blood. Her hand trembles, reaching out.

She reaches out, trembling, scared. How, when, why, still ringing. Pulling back. Mind about to break. She loved this, person. This person loved her, why does she tremble so. Why does she fear.

Eyes closing again. Sounds fading, the end growing near, night is falling.

Inching closer, she sees the wings, so clear. Feathers, black as night. Still trembling, still scared. Reaching out, grabbing the child. Pulling him free. Holding him in her arms, he breaths, he lives. For the first time she looks, takes you in with her eyes. Believing finally, understanding. Over whelmed, loss, regret. Leaning in, a simple kiss to the forehead. She doesn't fear you.

"Are, you, an, angel?" The voice, so distant. So faint. Using everything, all your strength. All your power. Touching her face, a gentle hand. Unable to speak, mouthing the word. "No,"

Night has fallen. Peace has come. Life of the child, for the life of the savior. The price has been paid.

A simple day, at waters edge. Torn asunder by a selfless act.

  • 3
    An equivalent piece in Arabic would be called 'Nathr'. If I must, I'd say that poetry is poetry, prose is plain old talk, what you have is a 'composition/composed prose'. But 'nathr' is commonly translated to 'prose' while prose would be 'insha'' in Arabic so I'm shooting in the dark here.
    – Mussri
    Feb 27, 2013 at 20:12
  • 1
    Interesting, seems like i stumbled into something unique. Or maybe just something so grammatically wrong that its right. I am pretty sure that its in the second point of view. However the style seems to be what confuses me (and other people.)
    – Lokiie1984
    Feb 27, 2013 at 20:21
  • Well, it's not exactly skilled-native-level language and I'm not a native myself. There might be a name for this 'flowing/slightly rhyming/not quite prose and not poetry' style but I don't know. And "composed prose" in my previous comment makes no sense; disregard it.
    – Mussri
    Feb 27, 2013 at 20:31
  • 1
    I think it's prose. I don't really know, though, but it doesn't look like poetry that much.
    – K124ST
    Jun 7, 2013 at 5:36

2 Answers 2


I'd call it stream-of-consciousness prose. And try magazines which accept short stories.

  • Also interesting. I had to google it and the example text they list sure sounds like my brain. Even if a magazine would never take it, at least I'm learning something out of it lol. Thanks for the answer Lauren, i might have to look into some magazines for it, whats the worst they could say? "Its not for us." Or maybe "Burn it!"
    – Lokiie1984
    Feb 27, 2013 at 22:14
  • Not sure if this is actually a stream of consciousness as that implies a (radically) subjective voice, whereas the perspective in this piece is omniscient.
    – micapam
    Feb 28, 2013 at 0:27
  • 1
    It's a stream of somebody's consciousness. Who's to say it can't be an omniscient being's? Feb 28, 2013 at 0:45
  • I have come to the conclusion that it is a "focused stream of consciousness." Where as (from what i read on wiki) the typical stream is bouncing all over the place. This one is steering the reader to one final conclusion.
    – Lokiie1984
    Feb 28, 2013 at 22:08
  • I'm not so sure about that. Yes, it's somewhat 'streamy' (and that's an important aspect) but I think its 'sound' is a more defining feature. It's like a semantically-rhyming (idea-rhyme/idea-flow/etc.) piece that is more focused and 'artistic' than plain prose but much more relaxed than poetry. There's got to be a name for that.
    – Mussri
    Feb 28, 2013 at 22:29

I that would be a prose poem. Although you might be able to market it as either if needed. But that label is from a creative writing course it took. Really, it falls into a few labels.

Poetry, particularly ones with narratives, can get confusing. However, it is the style of a prose poem that make it a prose poem.

Now my word doesn't mean much here, but I'd call it a poem everything from the energy, imagery, just the way its written.

But, more importantly, don't too much about what it is or isn't. It's art.

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