Prosebuds (Issue 5: Nov. 2025)

"Falling from the Inside" Chapter 5 + Prosebud Tim Murphy!

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.

An image of the biggest sunflower I have ever seen in person against a bright blue sky, captured during my sister-in-law’s late-October wedding weekend at Los Poblanos in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Hey, ‘buds!

How is that this October-into-November period always manages to be one of the busiest times of the year? Is that just me? Maybe it’s being back in the academic spin cycle that has me feeling this way, but I think it’s always the case…

I’m very proud to feature a pumpkin—one of two—that my wife and I managed to nurture in our little Brooklyn yard. For any Ghost Tour fans, this little guy is the descendant of “Gourda,” our pumpkin podcast mascot that I purchased at the grocery store last year—complete with her own full face and wig.

A pint-sized pumpkin (Gourda’s descendant) mid-color change from deep green with a patch of fiery orange at its center.

It’s my birthday month, by the way. Welcome Scorpio Season—and Zohran season for those of us in NYC (get thee to the polls). Here we are—I am here! Lately whenever I greet a stranger, especially an elder in my neighborhood, we proceed with the perfunctory “how are you?” and then I always end up remarking that, “we’re alive, and that’s something!” And well, it is. It’s so easy to forget amidst the chaos-turmoil-grief that waking up and being here is a gift.

Sending love to all ye prosebuds across the universe. Today we are five months strong because of you. Thanks for being here!

xCQ

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CQ Serialized Fiction | Falling From the Inside: Chapter 5

A colorful “C.T. Art Colortone” drawn postcard print of Canal Street, New Orleans—featuring the Downtown streetcar line (they used to be yellow!) with several cars, rows of buildings, including the Saenger and the old Loew’s Theater, toward the Mississippi River circa the 1930s/1940s. Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Onward down the Falling from the Inside rabbit hole with another flashback. In this month’s segment, we meet a very important figure—developer Rahman Mondul—for the first time.

Did you know a population of Bengali businessmen or “Hindoo peddlers,” as they were called, immigrated to New Orleans—and beyond—in the late 1800s and early 1900s? Many married and started families with Black women, mostly in Storyville, at the edge of Tremé, and assimilated into life in the South. Despite their complexions, these men were often granted more freedoms than their Black counterparts. For more on the subject, check out “The Lost Stories of Bengali Immigrants in the United States” by Ayshi Sen, the book Bengali Harlem by Vivek Bald, and writings by New Orleanian and descendant of a Bengali merchant who immigrated to the city, Fatima Shaik.

The cover of Bengali Harlem by Vivek Bald (Harvard University Press), featuring an old, creased black and white photograph of a mixed race Bengali-Black family—a woman in a patterned dress and a man in light pants and rolled collared shirt kneeling down with two women in summer dresses beside a short-sleeve shirted man holding a little girl, with his arm around a bespectacled boy.

One of my biggest goals with this project is to make folks aware that New Orleans is not purely Black and White, but goes so much deeper. Despite a general understanding of the city as a “melting pot,” so often books, films, television shows overlook so many of the city’s population. Latine, South Asian, and East Asian people live and thrive in New Orleans—and have for a very long time! (Not to mention the Chitimacha (now in the Charenton, Louisiana area) and Choctaw Native peoples on the land prior to French colonization.)

Enjoy this month’s chapter, and as always please comment, like, and/or share. If you need to catch up on the the last few installments, feel free to check out the archive.

Chapter 5: Lunch with Mr. Mondul

When Laura and Mark arrived at the half-full restaurant a few minutes early, Laura spotted Rahman Mondul right away—from afar, he looked completely at ease, reading over a newspaper she imagined must be the Wall Street Journal. Even for a man of his generation, she appreciated the novelty of his hard copy paper above a digital reader in this day and age.

Before they approached, Laura paused in the entryway and squeezed Mark’s clammy hand. “We’ve got this,” she whispered to him. Cheeks pink, he nodded as he adjusted his tie. The Mark who stood before her seemed an entirely different person than the man who comfortably managed countless construction sites. Truthfully—despite his Uptown upbringing—her husband felt uneasy in anything other than jeans and a t-shirt and even requested what he called a “casual wedding” for this very reason, but this occasion, of course, called for a suit. She herself in a clean-cut navy business dress and pearls. Ideally, they’d walk out of this meeting with a deal—or well on their way to one.

Mondul’s choice of restaurant for a lunch meeting seemed pointed—the more laid back Cochon in the CBD over Antoine’s in the Quarter or Commander’s Uptown. Mondul had no need to prove anything to them—after all, he was the mogul—but Laura imagined a less secure man would have leaned into extravagance. Mr. Mondul wore a dark suit and a crisp white collared shirt sans tie, plus a simple leather-banded watch and wire-framed glasses. Understated. Still, up close, Laura understood his clothes were expensive. She’d seen photos of Mondul with his thinning dark hair and close-lipped smile before and, of course, had done her research in preparation for the meeting, but something about his unpretentiousness still surprised her.

“You’ve been in the city a long time?” Mark asked, fidgeting with his silverware. Laura winced internally. Why Mark, why? The poor man looked even more uncomfortable than when they’d arrived, now visibly sweating. They both knew Mark needed to be here, but they’d planned out his talking points beforehand, agreeing she’d handle the bulk of the negotiation, as per usual. Part of what made she and Mark such a good team was playing to each other’s strengths.

“We know, of course, that you’ve had successful projects all over the country,” Laura added quickly, “but it’s nice that you’ve chosen to focus on properties in Louisiana and New Orleans in recent years.”

Mondul smiled. “Yes. I’ve been in Louisiana since the 90s—it’s home now. But there were other Monduls in New Or-leens at the turn of the 20th century—did you know that?” Laura appreciated the way Mondul said “New Orl-eens” despite his many years in the city—it reminded her of her dad, over fifty years in the Crescent City and he, too, pronounced its name like a tourist.

“I didn’t, actually.”

“Yes! Bengali merchants, just like me.”

“You’re humble to call yourself a merchant,” Laura said.

“Maybe,” he offered with a shrug.

When the waiter arrived, Mark ordered a whiskey, undoubtedly, to calm his nerves, though Laura wished he hadn’t—despite the visible bar, this clearly wasn’t a drinking sort of meeting. Laura knew from reading up about Mondul that he was a practicing Muslim—i.e. abstained from alcohol for religious reasons. She’d meant to mention this detail to Mark before they arrived, but amidst all the other reminders, the fact slipped her mind.

“Excuse me for a moment.” Mark slipped away toward the bathroom, having already downed two glasses of water in an incredibly short amount of time. Though a part of Laura worried about him, she imagined Mark’s brief departure a blessing—likely even deliberate on his part. She took her opportunity and trained her eyes on Mondul, but he spoke first.

“No offense to your husband, but I can tell you’re the brains of this operation,” Mr. Mondul said to Laura, matter of fact, taking a sip from his tea. She felt caught between feeling offended and flattered. Truly, the suggestion felt paternal, more than anything. Beyond their shared pronunciation of “New Or-leens,” Mondul’s soft-spoken confidence also reminded her of her father. After all, Mondul, too, came to this country to fulfill some version of the supposed American dream, just like her father had—one a businessman, one a scientist. Laura wondered if Mondul had daughters, but before she had the chance to ask, he continued—“Tell me, can your company really handle a project of this scale?”

“Yes, we’re ready for this, and we’d love to show you around one of our sites—that’s where Mark really shines.” She answered, hoping she seemed convincing enough. That probably would have been the better plan all along, but Mondul requested a lunch first, so they obliged. Truthfully, if it weren’t for the recent boom in commercial construction in the city, they wouldn’t even be having this conversation. Laura realized that a number of factors had led them to this point—namely, a current lack of worthy, available candidates—which provided the perfect opportunity for Girot Construction to step in and scale up. This was the chance they’d been hoping for, and it basically landed in their laps, thanks especially to an old Newman* connection from Mark’s Krewe**.

Just then, Mark returned to the table. “I miss anything?”

“Laura was just telling me a little about your company. She’s very convincing.”

“She’s the best thing that ever could have happened to this company, not to mention me,” Mark said, taking his seat, and for the first time since they met that day, Mondul seemed charmed by him. Laura herself couldn’t help but feel a flash of warmth in her chest at Mark’s genuine declaration. Maybe Girot Construction really would win the bid for the Jazz and Blues Hotel, and knowing Mondul’s influence in the city, state, and beyond, Laura already imagined a very profitable future for them all…

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Footnotes:

*Newman: Refers to the independent early child-12th grade Isidore Newman School located in New Orleans.

**Krewe: In reference to a Mardi Gras krewe, a social organization that puts on parades and balls for the annual carnival season in New Orleans. For example: Rex, Zulu, Orpheus, Bacchus, Muses, etc.

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Featured Prosebud | Tim Murphy

Where to start about the dear Tim Murphy? I met Tim when he and poet Jerome Ellison Murphy approached me pre-COVID days to start a multi-genre reading series called Bespoke at the Bureau of General Services—Queer Division! (For those who don’t know the Bureau, I highly encourage you to check out this cozy bookstore run by Donnie Jochum and Greg Newton chock-full of queer goodies and events right on the second floor beyond the Keith Haring bathroom at the Center here in NYC. I launched my first published full-length play, Scissoring, at BGSQD in 2019, and even proposed to my now-wife at a 2016 event in that very special space.)

Though our Bespoke reading series is no more, I remain a fan and friend of my cohosts. Beyond Tim’s novels—I found The Correspondents, with its cross-continental themes of friendship, identity, and displacement, especially compelling—I also can’t recommend his Caftan Chronicles Substack enough. Each issue proves a total gem, full of Tim’s warm and candid journalistic flair, providing insight into “gay men of a certain age” across the spectrum of experience. When not writing, Tim engages with protests in New York and beyond — most recently involved with Rise and Resist in their weekly silent protest outside the immigration courts of 26 Federal Plaza “where ICE agents wait for immigrants to leave case hearings that they dutifully show up for—and cart them away to detention centers, even if they are in some form of legal status (like an asylum case) or haven’t committed crimes.” (If you can, join! The protests happen 12-1pm every Thursday here in NYC.) I’m continuously moved by how Tim shows up in all the ways—as an artist, activist, supporter, and community leader. If you don’t know his work yet, now’s the time! I’m honored to introduce you.

Author Tim Murphy is a fair skinned half-White, half-Lebanese American man with salt-and-pepper short hair and beard in wire-rimmed gold glasses and a navy jacket. Pictured with a New York City park background in a photo by Eric McNatt.

Tim Murphy is a longtime NYC-based freelance journalist who writes or has written mainly on HIV/AIDS, LGBTQ health and legal issues, and queer arts/culture for outlets including The New York Times, New York Magazine, Poz, Out and The Advocate. He is the author of novels including Christodora, Correspondents, Speech Team and the forthcoming Cat Burglars of Paris. He also does a popular Substack called The Caftan Chronicles featuring long interviews with famous or notable gay men, usually ages 60 and older.

The cover of The Correspondents by Tim Murphy (Grove Press) featuring a blue body of water with the reflection of a Boston clocktower at the top and a Beirut mosque reflection at the bottom.

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

TM: I'm nearly done cutting my novel that's coming out next year from about 125K words to below 100K words. It's very meditative work - it makes you analyze each passage of the novel for any text, even a line or a phrase, that is extraneous, not germane to the story and drags the scene on for too long. And you know it's all leading to a slimmer-looking book, which is all that our attention-challenged Instagram public wants these days.

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

TM: Since January I have been very depressed, angry and fearful about the political climate and it has almost completely stopped me from working on a new novel because working on a novel seems like a very inward thing to be doing when it seems there is so much one can and should be doing as an activist and political organizer. I have literally worked on that new novel about three times since January. But once I'm done trimming the current novel I do want to get back to it because I've long known that working steadily on a novel has always done wonders for my mood and psyche and that the longer I go without doing it, the more dysregulated I get. I have many other tasks in my life involving reading and writing but nothing really satisfies on that deep level like slowly creating a brand-new story.

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

TM: It's extremely difficult to boil this down to one answer! Since I was about 11, there have been so many writers and works that took me to the next level as a reader and a writer. So I guess I'll just say my arguably favorite novel of all time, Donna Tartt's The Secret History, which I think of as the perfect novel in every single respect, from the gorgeousness and richness of the writing to her profound mastery of mood, tone and atmosphere to the strangeness and specificity of her characters and their intricate relationships to the way she works a backwards murder plot, telling us basically on page one the essence of what happened, and then reverse engineering the whole story in a way that is utterly riveting and absorbing. It also hits so many emotional notes - it's wryly funny and satirical, almost as though she is laughing at her own melodrama at times, but also bizarre, moving, erotic, yearning, melancholy, haunting. I will never get tired of reading it.