Prosebuds (Issue 4: Oct. 2025)

A fall install of "Falling from the Inside" + Prosebud Kia Corthron!

Note: 🎧 For accessibility, I provide a reading of every Prosebuds issue audiobook-style. Listen by clicking the play button on the above “Article Voiceover” tab.

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Surprise! Beautiful fall wildflower blooms. An array of light purple many-petaled flowers with small yellow-orange center points on a thick green plant.

Hey, ‘buds!

The morning I began writing this missive, my Wordle guesses—yes, I’m still absolutely that person—moved from “alone” to “along,” which felt significant. “Along” ended up being the correct word and I wish I’d snapped a photo. As much as I’m tempted to hide away and hermit during these dark times, what a difference community makes. Of this I’m reminded constantly. Even in my daily Wordle!

In mid-September, I had the opportunity to see my wonderful Latinx Playwrights Circle mentee Lorena Peralta present her beautiful Pietamima play after months of intensive revision on the project. Since the play is mostly set in Puerto Rico, the fantastic ensemble reading was largely in Spanish, by the way (fuck you very much, SCOTUS). But that’s beside the point. In the past several months, whenever I see a live production or reading—no matter the genre(s)—I can’t help but think: AI ain’t got nothin’ on this! Visceral movement in real time across a stage, an improvised interaction between an audience member and performer or reader, the brush of a fellow spectator bursting in laughter. And for a moment, however brief, I feel smug and hopeful and happy about the triumph of humanity in art. Yes! For those keeping score, that’s 1 Humanity 0 Robots. So, here’s to that, eh? Let’s take all the wins we can.

Pictured arm-in-arm in bold greens, navies, and white tones with leafy plants in the background is the talented director, cast, playwright, and stage manager for Lorena Peralta’s Pietamima Intensive Mentorship Reading via Latinx Playwrights Circle. Peralta, with her shoulder-length dark curly hair, is second from the right in a green tank top and patterned skirt. Photo credit: Benjamin Manno.

Now, for my fellow nerds out there, and in honor of the academic year in full swing, I also want to share the etymology of the noun "prose” via etymonline. In truth, I’ve been meaning to do this for a while! Also: exciting news for those following my wayward employment adventures: as of two weeks ago, I’m the newest adjunct playwriting professor in Fordham’s theatre program. But I digress:

prose (n.)

c. 1300, “story, narration,” from Old French prose (13c.) and directly from Latin prosa, short for prosa oratio “straightforward or direct speech” (without the ornaments of verse), from prosa, fem. of prosus, earlier prorsus “straightforward, direct,” from Old Latin provorsus “(moving) straight ahead,” from pro “forward” (from PIE root *per- (1) "forward") + vorsus “turned”

It feels important to note—four issues in, but better late than never!—that Prosebuds is about great, accessible writing and storytelling period. We’re all-inclusive genre-wise, my friends.

Poetry is very near and dear to my heart, so I hope it’s clear that Prosebuds is poetry-forward in our multi-genre mix! A wonderful poet-essayist will be featured in a soon-to-be future installment, and hopefully many, many more poet-writers to come. I’d love so much to feature a comic writer or graphic novelist who is multi-genre in scope, too. (As a matter of fact, last month’s featured writer, Meg Mateo, is at work on her own stellar graphic novel. What can’t she do?)

For now, I’m wishing everyone a wonderful October, which is my very favorite time of year. On with the festive gourds and decadent foliage and cider donuts and pumpkin spice lattes, if you so please—and I do. I hope that you find joy in pockets big and small this month—including here—and as always, thanks for reading!

xCQ

A poetry comic by Grant Snider over at his Substack Incidental Comics. The comic features a cartoon figure staring up at the sky from a blanket on the grass and making simple observations of a plane, birds, and a cloud.

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CQ Serialized Fiction | Falling From the Inside: Chapter 4

Laura’s saga continues! With this month’s installment, I’ll let the chapter speak for itself, but I’d still love to know your reactions and thoughts—any and all of the above. Comment, like, and/or share. And, as always, if you need to catch up on the the last few installments, feel free to check out the archive.

A bright aerial shot of homes, businesses, and highways in Kenner, Louisiana, from Wikimedia Commons.

Chapter 4: “Mira eso.”

“Mira eso, papo—grandes espacios sin vigas,” said a concerned man’s voice to another in the background of the shaky smartphone footage. Though never pictured, the initial voice, rhythmic and expressive, stood out to Laura thanks to last night’s phantom visitation.

Out of sight behind the camera, the man Laura presumed to be Romero, wielded his phone’s flashlight alongside another unseen man in the darkness of the construction site. He pointed the cloudy lens between one badly bent beam barely holding up thick slabs of concrete and large gaps of space without any support whatsoever. Even to the untrained eye, the conditions appeared exceptionally dangerous and within seconds of watching the grainy footage, Laura felt her muscles lock, struck by a heavy wave of nausea.

According to the time stamp on the video, the men captured this footage days before the collapse. A clear warning. Who was the intended audience? She wondered. Hunched over her phone, Laura replayed her unsettling conversation with Mark in their bathroom this morning. He insisted there was nothing he knew that she didn’t, but had he seen the video prior to the accident? She desperately wanted to believe the footage never made it to Mark—she needed to trust he’d been honest with her; their livelihoods depended on it. Hell, their marriage depended on it. He’d never lied to her on this scale—sure there were the white lies she told as much as he did, the kind that seemed customary in any marriage, but nothing catastrophic, nothing that really mattered like this—so why was she so concerned about his honesty now?

With a few swift taps, Laura easily discovered the internet clip from this morning’s local news broadcast. According to the report, someone initially published the construction site footage on their Facebook page, then someone else copied the footage to YouTube, and before long the video became a story—likely already a national story in the works for the evening news. How could she have missed this? Laura’s terrified by how far it’s already gone—can it be contained? Who published it to begin with? Determined to find out, Laura scoured Google next, but uncovered limited results: the original link dead, the account disappeared—

POUND! POUND! POUND!

“Holy shit!” Laura said, nearly knocked out of her seat by the jolt of Marie pounding on her driver’s side window. Marie’s face twisted up like a mirliton squash; she looked furious. So absorbed in processing the footage, Laura nearly forgot that she still remained parked “surreptitiously” down the street from Romero’s house where she spotted Marie not even fifteen minutes before. Laura’s annoyed with herself for staying. Why didn’t she just drive away and watch the video from somewhere else? Probably because deep down some part of her hoped that Marie might see her, approach her, want to talk…

With a guilty expression, Laura rolled down the driver’s side window, letting the day’s humidity seep into the air-conditioned car. “Hi, Marie.”

“I told you I needed space, Laura. This is—I mean, this is weird. Did you follow me?” Marie’s bald accusation left Laura silent, shocked. How unhinged did Marie think she was? Sure, she’s looked for excuses to be in Marie’s neighborhood, thought about “bumping into her” near the hospital or clinic, or imagined dropping in for a cocktail at her favorite bar—all absolutely inappropriate, yes, though not totally out of the question—but she never actually followed through on any of it.

Without a response from Laura, Marie continued, eyes wide and exasperated, more insistent than before: “Hello? What the hell are you doing here?

“Well, I suppose I could ask you the same thing…” Laura managed to say at last, attempting to be coy, but as soon as the words came out, they sounded stranger than she hoped. She wasn’t sure she stood any chance of lightening the mood.

“I’m visiting a friend, not that it’s any of your damn business,” Marie huffed. “These folks are grieving, and I think it’s best you get outta here.”

Laura nodded, stunned, feeling Marie slipping further away from her with every word. Her sweet eyes looked tired, but still warm—despite her best attempts at gruffness. How much Laura longed for their old intimacy now, a fantasy world where Marie might purely be happy to see her here, where she might invite Laura out of the car and hug her deeply, wrapping her in her muscled arms.

Laura realized then what she needed to say in order to make Marie stay a few moments more, to continue the conversation at all, and so she did. “You knew Romero?” Laura said, and suddenly, Marie’s expression shifted. She understood something now; facts confirmed about Laura’s relationship to the situation—why she really sat in her parked car here, on this street. As it turned out, it had nothing to do with Marie at all, their meeting truly some uncanny serendipity.

“Of course…” Hands at her waist, she shook her head. “I’ve gotta go.” Marie’s eyes gave one quick sweep of the street, then she leaned into the car and whispered to Laura through gritted teeth: “Don’t come back here.”

Laura hated to admit how much Marie’s reprimand turned her on; she wondered how aware of that fact Marie might be, not that it mattered now. By her account, it seemed the conversation would not continue here, if ever. The air between them stiff, Marie said nothing else, and Laura, at a loss, remained quiet, too—despite the massive number of invasive thoughts that filled that small stretch of time. Laura watched as she stomped back to her car without looking back, jumped inside with a distinct slam of her door, and drove away…

Suddenly, a ping lit up Laura’s cell phone, now caught in her lap. A text message from Mark. In all honesty, he was the last person she wanted to hear from right now, but she needed to shake off this meeting with Marie and deal with the aftermath of the video footage. Still, Marie’s scent clung to the air in the SUV—incredibly distracting. Laura launched herself toward the glove compartment and popped an especially fragrant lavender air freshener onto the vent, then repositioned her phone on the dash. As she started the engine and drove down the street away from Romero’s house, she instructed Siri to play the voice memo. Mark’s familiar voice, worn at its edges, filled the car: “L, we’ve gotta talk.”

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Featured Prosebud | Kia Corthron

I’m so thrilled to shout out a truly incredible writer, activist, and person this month. Kia Corthron is a force in the theatrical world, not to mention an award-winning novelist, and one of the kindest, most humble human beings and artists I’ve ever met. Chances are, you’re already familiar with her plays and books, but I know you’ll appreciate this little peek into her mind, regardless! Corthron’s a leader who’s unafraid to speak out in all the ways and stands for why the work we do as writers is ever-important. (An added bit of trivia: Kia’s first TV writing credit was Season 4, Episode 9 of The Wire called “Know Your Place”.)

Kia Corthron, a light-skinned Black woman with locs in a light blue shirt against a leafy-edged background, photographed by Sophie Kandaouroff

Kia Corthron’s debut novel, The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter, won the 2016 Center for Fiction First Novel Prize and was a New York Times Editor's Choice. Productions of her plays in NYC at Playwrights Horizons, NY Theatre Workshop, Atlantic Theater Company, MTC, plus regional venues, have garnered the Windham Campbell Prize, USArtists Jane Addams Fellowship, and others. Plays include Breath, Boom, Force Continuum, and two world premieres in 2024: Tempestuous Elements (Arena Stage, D.C.) and Fish (Keen Company/Working Theater, NYC). For more on Kia and her work, visit her website here.

An image of Corthron’s first novel, The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter, featuring interlinked brown arms on a pale blue background.

(ROSE) What's something that's going particularly great with your writing and/or writing process right now?

KC: I just turned in the first draft of a play commissioned by a theatre, and I feel good about it!

(THORN) What's something that's especially shitty about your writing and/or writing process right now?

KC: It was damn hard writing that commissioned play! The assignment was in the tradition of most of my play commissions over the years, which is Here’s some money, write whatever you want! (And we may or may not produce it!) I decided to create a restaurant dinner between a former Guantánamo detainee and a former Guantánamo guard, ninety minutes in REAL TIME—one scene, no breaks. Challenging! Arduous! The play also has an absurdist element, and that actually helped with keeping things moving. I finished the draft! I turned it in! I’m happy! But the process sure was a thorn in my side.

(STEM) Name a writer/artist/work that changed your life or sustains you.

KC: I’m gonna go a little off-script here from the requested who’s-a-writer-that-changed-my-life and instead speak of some writing I find very inspirational right now. I hope by the time anyone reads this, the Israeli-engineered starvation of Gaza is over, but right now it’s in full force. I’m fortunate to live in New York City where stuff is always going on, so I try to go to an action or a rally or a march at least once a week, and I take encouragement from the solidarity of disrupting business or stopping traffic and carrying signs and making noise, which is to say bringing attention to what we all should be thinking about.

One of my favorite chants is:

Down, down with occupation! Up, up with liberation!

I don’t know who the original writer was, but that’s poetry.

Poster/collage art “Stand with Palestine” by Shahzaad Raja featuring a black and white image of a child on a torn Palestinian flag mixed with newspaper holding a sign that reads: “To stand with Palestine is to stand for humanity" in all caps.