SAM PROSSER
Sam Prosser is a recent graduate with a degree in psychology and sociology from the University of Bath Spa in the Southwest of England. Not only does he delve into the intricacies and nuances of the human mind during the day, but he also weaves elaborate tales of his own whenever the stars align.
In the moments of free time which he manages to carve out, Sam can be found dedicated to penning his debut book, Memoirs of a Romantic—a compelling and true story of love and adventure from the perspective of his seventeen-year-old self. The story follows as Sam meets a girl on a college trip to Slovenia, and the unforgettable day they shared together before Sam returned home. Weeks of online talks and calls ensue before he finally builds up the confidence to return to Slovenia. Despite warnings from his friends and the lack of awareness from his parents, Sam sets off on his own to reunite with his holiday crush. The trip takes a few unexpected turns, however, as he finds himself stranded in Italy on Easter Sunday with no transportation and his debit card restricted. His only hope is to hitchhike the one hundred miles between him and his destination. Seventeen and alone in a foreign country, Sam must make some difficult decisions if he is to make it to her in time. Ultimately, Memoirs of a Romantic is a tale of isolation, persistence, and the naivety that comes with love.
Sam’s main interests with literature lie with the larger-than-life fantasy stories such as Harry Potter, Game of Thrones, and Mistborn, among many others. But Sam has always been a sucker for the captivating stories told in film, games, anime, and manga, and expresses a desire to one day work on projects that bring stories to life.
As Sam embarks on a career in psychology, he aspires to fulfil a lifelong ambition by leaving his own indelible mark on the world of literature. Whether it is poetry, fantasy, sci-fi, or romance, Sam is full of ideas that he dreams of putting onto paper.
DIARY ENTRY
PAST POEM TO FUTURE CHILD OF MINE
I would find myself drained the moment that I lost you. For years I have lived with the knowledge it would happen if you left, leaving me with the bitter pill that my life was tied to your breath.
This morning as you left, with my feelings in your hand, you clap to our farewell. Yet I still dutifully bode you well. The sun rose high and as you disappeared from my view, you left me with the ghostly words, ‘who knew?’
Oh, I knew.
Years of tiredness and sadness have somehow left me weak. The only things that move in me are the strings that you stapled to my hands and feet. You play those strings with your non-conformist fingers, maverick in their sound and nature—you play my life like a fiddle. Your fingers close together, yet somehow non-whimsical.
With bitter reflection as I write this line, it dawns on me that I may be akin to a puppet. A puppet trapped in a loveless time. You could pick me up and drop me down, I lay where you chose, and I stay where I am to be found.
Oh, I weep at the life I left behind.
Before you, the world said I was flippant and sporadic.
Arbitrary and accidental.
Irregular and undetermined.
I sought the joy of your embrace, and the release from their gaze. I now fear the day you cut these strings and I fall without restraint. Severed threads would dangle from my limp body. Childless cries, and would-be lives, dreams I would never embody.
So, I need you. Oh, how it hurts for me to say so.
My life in your hands, I will dance to any tune that you whistle. You may pull my strings if you see the need to or leave me like a dog that is free to rescue. For I am nothing without the knots that we have tied. Nothing without the heart that beats inside.
Exhausted now, I dance upon this tabletop. As the music plays, I am unable to simply drop.
You will not let me stop.
Your hands act in sync like a Mexican wave, and with them you will one day guide me to my grave. A life of servitude lived for the honour of your name. On my tombstone, it will read:
‘A woman unable to cut the strings that bound her, and in this hole, now unbound, is where you find her.
Sam Prosser © 2024
If you ever see the harsher things,
The crueller things,
The stab right through to the heart of things.
Then remember the nicer things,
The kinder things,
The one plus one makes beautiful things.
If you’re ever hurt by the colder things,
Then find some love in the warmer things,
The lasting things,
The one plus one makes new little things.
For I have seen some scary things,
Some lonely things,
The one take two make painful things.
But I never lost sight of the little things,
I never lost touch of the real things,
The truthful things,
The love plus love makes amazing things.
And one day you will be a thing.
Not a dream nor a hope but a tiny thing.
Akin to the lighter things,
The smelly things,
The furniture plus you makes broken things.
Untouched by the frightful things,
The troubling things,
The bills plus bills make no present things.
But you will have me and all my worthful things,
My personal things,
My past and future things,
So please, future child of mine, be delicate when you pull upon my heartstrings.
Sam Prosser © 2022
