Fiction, Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer, Memories/Childhood, My Thoughts, Nature, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Relationship, Writing, Writing Challenges

Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: Poem – Prose Poetry – “Chop, chop. He Chops” #amwriting #flashfiction #lumberjack #prosepoetry


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW.

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Credit: Loretta Notto

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Chop, Chop. Chop the wood. Repeat. Chop. Chop. Day ends — Supper. Shower. Sleep too deep. Jarring alarm, awake again. Breakfast. Shower. Sore muscles hurt. Heat eases. More coffee. Uniform and axe. Greet the guys. Say hello — going off. All directions on the forest grid. Each with a partner. Nick is with me. A cadence of chops. Echoes. Chop. Chop. Chop the wood. Split it. Chop, chop. Chop the wood. The trees are felled. Grinding buzzing. Giant chain saw. Felling trees. Cutting logs. Then we chop. Chop, chop. Chop the wood. Lunch. Hungry. Seconds. Chop. Home. Shower. Supper. Eat. Sore muscles. Sleep and dream. Standing there. In her T-shirt. Sweet lips. Short shorts. Gentle laughter. Stroke of hand. Touch. So real. Chop, chop. Chop the wood. Dreaming. She’s gone. Three hours. Then, chop, chop. Chop the wood. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved. 

Fiction, My Thoughts, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Relationship, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Fiction/Poem: Prose Poetry – “Screened in Darkness” #introtopoetry #fiction #prosepoetry 


The Poetry 101 prompt is a screen of any kind using enjambment. I’m also incorporating a word from The Daily Post, Darkness.

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http://www.pinterest.com

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Behind the screen I keep myself veiled, a Japanese screen with paper too thin and I keep on wondering if he’ll look, wishing Luke wouldn’t because I know I’ll be doing the walk of shame back home. And I don’t know why but I’m so ashamed, the wine went to my head last night; I knew better. Luke was attractive, he was kind; for a moment I thought he cared more about me than a few statistics and few words; but this morning, Luke left his house empty but for his cleaning lady and cook who made me crepes and said, “You need to get ready to go home. Mr. Luke doesn’t like his lady friends to be at his home if he decides to drop by at lunch to take the dog out for a run especially.” I didn’t understand why Luke was screening me, why I awoke from euphoria to a cold empty bed; the hand stroking my cheek in the night wanted only one thing, and didn’t want it from me again though Luke and I had been friends before. There was no text message, no note, and I wondered if I would see Luke again. No doubt, he’d try to avoid my favourite hangouts from now on, he knew most of them. But I didn’t get why I felt so exposed that morning getting dressed. We’d been naked all night but when I woke up and Luke saw me; I felt judged. Judged by the bite marks, the bruising, my careful movements. Luke gazed at me grinning, when I hid behind that Japanese screen to dress after my shower. “It’s no use to hide behind the screen Katie. I can see right through it in the morning light. Come back to bed . . .” So back to Luke I went though sorely overused, and when I fell asleep he was gone and I was alone; Luke’s pillow was cold. I wish I’d screened him better, I wish it was him who was exposed and not me. He hides all his secrets in the dark, he thrives in its opaqueness. The darkness lets him treat women how he does, another notch in a metaphorical bedpost. Walking home, I felt empty, caught in Luke’s darkness, as if I had wasted so much time and conversation, in the end only to be screened, told I wasn’t right for the position. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

My Thoughts, NaPoWriMo, Nonfiction, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

NaPoWriMo: Poem – Prose – “Poker Face”


Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on things you remember. Try to focus on specific details, and don’t worry about whether the memories are of important events, or are connected to each other. You could start by adopting Brainard’s uniform habit of starting every line with “I remember,” and then you could either cut out all the instances of “I remember,” or leave them all in, or leave just a few in. At any rate, hopefully you’ll wind up with a poem that is heavy on concrete detail, and which uses that detail as its connective tissue. Happy writing!

Please see NaPoWriMo for more information.

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There are memories and memories inbetween memories, things you shouldn’t know. But I write and I say, what naturally comes to flow. Spending a day building raw story into characters who have flaws and appeal. Characters who are relatable and show affection, lust, a special connection with each other.

 I am building story from the ground level, thanks to a friend, who tore my story down line by line so I am able to build. I’m grateful for everything he sees that I do not. How the story doesn’t flow and how the characters actually appear.

What’s believable in real life? I think an interesting situation because the story involves magic and in real life we don’t believe in curses and the power of magic. We write of it extensively wishing for such power, such talents, such super-human abilities. Probably because we’re human, and sometimes being human makes a person feel mighty small. 

Today’s memories are about editing and refinement. Answering questions I wouldn’t know how to ask. I’m learning. Digging deeper, past the simple, into the complex. I don’t want a one-dimensional story. Though it has magic I want the characters to be real people and I want their flaws and likes/dislikes to show. I want what they’re good at, their occupations, their speech and actions, the people they have around them, to demonstrate their characters.

The minds of people are endlessly fascinating, especially the minds of those who say everything or say nothing. My Grandpa said little, his mind was complicated. He was a Pastor whose smoking habit ended his life at seventy-three -years-old. He would ask questions which made one think and consider alternate routes as he taught me the games of cribbage, chess, and when we attempted cryptograms and crossword puzzles. Grandpa’s questions always hinted at digging deeper, searching for another method, and missed details.

But my Godfather, he says everything. And what he says is thought-provoking. He is always thinking of other people, how to help. He is the bestfriend to his friends and he has many. He can listen but mostly he talks and he’s wise with his words.

I miss him and the second place I call home, his and my Godmothers charming house. His wisdom and continual thinking, his belief in God solving all problems, and finding answers from an omniscient God are well expressed; he gives me such peace after we’ve had a conversation or I’ve listened to him talk.

 And I’m thinking about a paint night I’m doing with friends at the bar Sunday night. Painting, did you know I love it? I will need a couple drinks to merely do as the instructor says, but I know what my hands and mind will do.

 I will mix the paint, either ruin or add to the design. I desire creativity. I’ve said it before, creativity cannot be boxed in its true form. But with a drink or two and two good friends, the evening will pass and I’ll come home, painting in hand.

 Also, finding a good guy — one whom you enjoy being with and talking with is difficult. You need to be attracted to their looks and their intelligence. You hope they such as you, have plans to do ‘something’ with their life. Finding a guy with all these parameters, is it asking too much? I’m not sure. I’m not extensively experienced here.

But time after time I’m disappointed when a date becomes, “come over to my place,” usually at night but sometimes in the day. There is no dating involved. There is no understanding of, ” I’m not interested.” And certain men keep messaging or calling. 

I’m not adverse to sleeping with the right guy. I haven’t found a right guy lately. I don’t know if I’m such as Alice’s friend at tea I’m, ‘mad as a hatter’ to believe there are good guys out there who want to have fun out of bed and when a woman trusts them, in bed too. Laying that foundation of trust is vital.

 I don’t think this thought of mine is right accordingto God but I’m trying to find a happy middle. Maybe my happy middle won’t make me happy? 

I’m tired of guys who only want a night here and there. That was university, I’m going to be thirty-one in July. I’m not twenty-one and even twenty-one year old me would have smacked a guy who kept after her after she repeatedly told him to back off.

Guys don’t get it, they scar women. This is stuff I cannot believe I’m writing but eighteen-year-old me was extremely naive at the bar. Her friend ditched her for some guy. She was all alone and trying to get away from this guy who followed her around the bar. She didn’t have the confidence a girl three or so years older had at the bar, batting away and shooting down idiots before they became stalkers for the night. 

She was so stupid. It’s effected her sense of trust ever since. He didn’t stop for a long time; it only felt like eternity. The repeated “No” in his ears, he was deaf to it until she cried wet tears. There were different guys after that, few who she didn’t mind getting close to.

But always, I have this disgust for men who treat women as if a woman’s existence is for their pleasure, because she wants or needs sex too. Should she have to sleep with a man after she has deliberated and said, “no?” No she shouldn’t, it’s always a woman’s choice, it’s her body after all.

Guy’s scar with their repeated advances boardering on harassment. They scar bruising you badly where they should be gentle. You look to see how purple your bruises are. Not understanding how he didnt comprehend, “don’t be rough.” 

Enough. To much info. But this poem is prose; it is memories past and to come — some awful and some exciting. Building memories writing and living in a world that can be cruel at times. 

But I think if you’re building if you’re working towards a goal you can be proud you’re using your talents despite the cards life and your stupid self may have dealt you playing poker.

Cheesy analogy but ever since I learned to play poker — Texas Holdem — in the basement of my Pastor’s house with friends I’d grown up or met in church at that time, I always think back to poker seeing such a carry over for life. 

Each day, place your bets and see what the ‘river’ holds, and how the cards in your hand can be played. Ask for another card if you dare, trading one in . . . 

We’d drink beer and play poker. We’d watch NFL football and play video games. I never entirely got why some days my poker playing was terrific, while other days I could fold most hands and end up broke. We paid twenty dollars in a pot at the beginning of each game. At times my one brother and I would play with the other players until 3:00 am or 4:00 am in the morning.

I didn’t play much poker after those years ended. But I feel sometimes as if I’m placing my bet, and trying desperately to hold onto my poker face. Tomorrow, more building. It keeps me going.

——

“Poker Face” – Lady Gaga

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©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

My Thoughts, NaPoWriMo, Nonfiction, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Travel, Writing

NaPoWriMo: Poem – Long Lines – “Eleven- Years Strong “


Finally, our prompt (optional, as always!) Today’s prompt comes to us from Megan Pattie, who points us to the work of the Irish poet Ciaran Carson, who increasingly writes using very long lines. Carson has stated that his lines are (partly) based on the seventeen syllables of the haiku, and that he strives to achieve the clarity of the haiku in each line. So today, Megan and I collectively challenge you to write a poem with very long lines. You can aim for seventeen syllables, but that’s just a rough guide. If you’re having trouble buying into the concept of long lines, maybe this essay on Whitman’s infamously leggy verse will convince you of their merits. Happy writing!

Please see NaPoWriMo for more information.

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Missing the ladies, who I grew into adulthood with and we saw,

The Grand Canyon in its burnt orange and red glory set,

Peering far down into the canyon, too close to the edge smiling,

Pulling each other back, to flash pictures on cameras all of us worn.

And planning each Thursday night to go dancing and drinking down on Whyte,

Collecting free drinks, shots from young men, paying ninty-nine-cents at the end.

Frequently, snapping pictures at winter formals, wearing our finest,

Staying at the fanciest and most historical hotel for sixty bucks,

Four girls to a room, preparing their hair and makeup, perfection, beauty.

If only I could be as fat, as I thought I was at twenty-one-years-old,

Thinking my stomach stuck-out, it wasn’t concave, it was fine and flat.

Walking through Vegas in stiletto heels, not feeling the pain, lost shoe —

My friend had a lovely Silky black-heel, she dropped walking back, barefoot.

Crying at 3:00 am (forget), remember times smiling and laughing.

Working in the same store, I dream I work their at night with my ladies,

Now raising kids, puppy training, fiancés, husbands, moving in — life changes.

From twenty-years-old to thirty-one-years old nearly; eleven years still strong.

—–

©Mandibelle16. (2016) All Rights Reserved.

Books, Free Verse, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Writing

Poem: Prose Poetry – “Reading Away”


 

http://www.pinterest.com
 
I just want to read. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to write. I only want to read. Let the pages turn, like Metallica’s Lars Ulrich sings. I don’t want to do anything else. I’m under too much pressure. I only want to read, in a comfy bed I’ve made. Sheets that are cozy flannel. A duvet that is heavy with blankets on top. Just let me be warm and content. I’d go outside, if it was twenty-five degrees. But now it’s winter. I’ll stay in my nest. I won’t fall asleep. The book has me enthralled. I’ll stay here with my pillows, all twelve of them. I will read to escape. A book that doesn’t make me wonder. Just words that mean what they mean. And are a hide away. It’s good to have something greater in the big picture. But in the book I read, I want to drift away. Love and Sex. A Mysterious Horror. Blood and Broken Hearts. Action and Sexyiness. Affection and Friendship. No Tears please. Take me away. Let me read. Let the time spin by. I’m in my bed. I’m reading each word with greed. Catch me another day. Today, I’m reading. Today I’m carefree.

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

Fiction, Flash Fiction, Free Verse, My Thoughts, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Flash fiction for Aspiring Writers: “Demonic Beauty”


Enclosed in the bar, eyes magnify; temptress in red, silk sliding on skin.

Sway in her hips, a tease of the senses. Men breathless consent, adoring sin.

Striding with ease, heels ruby with diamonds. Naked shoulders shimmer, anticipating.

Treading softly, fallen in red fire, elusive, and beguiling; illusion of flames sating.

Moving her hips, licking cherry red lips; coal glimmer in demonic eyes.

Sensations burning, engulfs her body; seething, writhing, building her disguise,

A vestige of power; she’s the tyger enticing, an allusion to Eden, of poisonus lies.

Decisive, sauntering closer, flicking hair, tar-black as the ash before Lent.

Peer into eyes, a glimmer of gold, metal men grieve for; silence, fire scent.

A vision, a curse, a whisper in vain — animating, the instrument on stage, 

Notes dance, music bleeding; breathing sweat, the melody of the enraged,

Fire rings, smoke engulfing; watch the woman despair, her voice entrances, beware–

Beauty enraged, a witch, incaged; performing she’s the beast, on stage no cares.

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http://www.pixebay.com
 

Thanks to Priceless Joy our wonderful host of FFfAW.

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

Free Verse, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Religion/Morality, Writing

Poem: “The Good.”


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A personal matter, what you believe,

What is the fire in your furnace,

And why keep it a secret, if you think you’re right.

Perhaps, you’re afraid that you think the wrong thoughts.

Perhaps, you’re prejudiced and say the wrong words.

Maybe you talk, about that which you don’t understand.

Maybe, you don’t really know what you believe.

It’s okay, but you shouldn’t be ashamed.

—–

Where does the good go? It isn’t for reward,

It’s because you believe in a God who is the word ‘good.’

People aren’t good, don’t you see the news?

Sin and badness is within us — from Adam innate.

Even when we try, the good isn’t always good.

It’s hard to explain, but I won’t keep quiet,

Why should I keep my faith locked up, when others could benefit? 

Good deeds have no reward, but they make you feel good.

They are needed in a world where many things are wrong.

And are to be done because it is for the moral good to do.

Also because it was commanded by God to be good neighbours.

—-

You may not believe in a heaven.

Good deeds won’t get you there, but faith could be the cure.

Didn’t you ever wonder where the good came from,

Don’t twist what is truly good, evil is simply good twisted.

Don’t tell me faith is personal and should be hidden.

That’s like being caught in the darkest deepest blackest hole,

And having a candle that could light the way out,

But never lighting it because that candle is ‘personally yours,’

Someone else might find your light, and benefit from its glow,

I share my faith, because my light could lead others home.

So, where is your light, when your candle isn’t lit.

You’ll never find your way out of prison walking in black pitch.

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

Free Verse, My Thoughts, Nonfiction, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Relationship, Religion/Morality, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Writing

Poem: Free Verse – “Paper Bag Princess.”


  
Here’s for the meanings and the seemings,

The words we’ve been breathing, though they are concealing,

We’re never hidden behind steal, or a solid wall of bricks.

And we’re shamed, peeking out of ‘the cupboard,’ hiding like the Indian did from a childhood book.

 We move through our thoughts, the glances of others who don’t understand —

What it means to remain hidden.

——

They’re all out there with their sunglasses and dreamy looks,

 In a world finding love, come together — some love separates. 

And I haven’t spent the days before Valentine’s Day dreaming,

 I don’t need a man to give me flowers or chocolates. 

I don’t need more demands and inferences of combinations dialled,

Short and electric, but fizzles and drizzles, as the rain pours outside. 

Dividing our time between sleeping and daylight,

And the sun keeps on rising; 

I keep on imprivising all the things I’m construing,

In a mind filled with despising a guy who I left.

Who made me know what it hurts like to feel neglect,

After he’s gone on, but still calling — I wish he would stop.

 That I could forget all about these “tygers” and their wants. 

I’m not happy nor comfortable, unless they get their cut, pieces of my being;

They’re dividing me among each other, taking the best cuts and leaving the scraps.

—–

And outside is a puppy and I want to hold her, because she doesn’t need much —

Only to eat, walk, cuddle, play, and go wee.

She needs her nails clipped and her teeth brushed sometimes. 

I’m a woman begging everyday of her life for things I’m uninspired to give,

If you won’t even attempt to do better, make it as important as a ‘business deal.’

 I’m not above you or below you you dirty-thirty-something.

 I’m just looking for meaning among people who are loyal.

I’m caught in my dreams, betwixt the real and the “real” in this Wonderland. 

And if we look through the ‘looking glass’ we only see people in poverty,

Who are thinking only of eating and surviving. 

Loving doesn’t matter much when you are looking for fresh water, 

When you’re sickly and dying — or does it matter most?

——

But here, won’t you hear me —

In our first- world of problems — 

I’m trying! I’m trying — but it’s never enough.

You dragons eat your steaks and leave me with nothing but my dry bones. 

You ravish a ‘paper-bag princess’ and leave her without a stitch;

Clothes that cover her heart.

And you suck her organs dry of blood and all matter,

You leave a her exposed for the vultures to grasp at,

 You break open a bottle of liquor and the whole room explodes, 

Covered in champagne and the bubbles make you choke.

Sifting through closets, cover up my exposed heart,

I don’t want to reveal myself but in the “real” world I must.

 Because if your broken your fixable and can be put back together,

 A mirror that’s shattered and eternally busted.

——

And these words may make little sense but that’s what you call — prose poetry,

Of a girl, who’s  a woman, who’s a child, who’s lured by the promises,

Of a blackness so bleak no one can see in front of their face,

Because in the darkest depths, the light shines brightest.

Arise and save yourself, 

Think of the words to describe your freedom desired —

Taylor Swift wrote it well: ” It’s too late for you and your white horse to catch me now.”

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

Event, Free Verse, My Thoughts, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Relationship, Writing

Poem: Quatrains on Life


It’s hard to shut my mind off.

There’s no switch, so it keeps wandering,

Down the paths of will I and should I?

Through the trails of could I? Would I?

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I think I’ve been making some important steps.

I also think there are parts of the wheel,

That still haven’t turned and the process is slow,

But I try to do well just the same.

——

I’m stuck in a pattern and it’s not right,

To fear having so many people around,

To wonder how long until my body gives out,

To wish for meaning, but instead I’ll drift.

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Idle, conversation, I am merely there to be there,

To see a girl who lights up the world.

But her candle’s been flickering lately.

Even though she is doing well; I worry,

—–

She’s breaking the back of a milicious monster,

It starts with a “C” it’s a terrible disease,

But she doesn’t give it power, 

It’s why she refers to it as ‘Boobitas.’

—–

Maybe, she is being cute but I have to agree,

Power lies with the fears we let overcome us,

And she has a life to live, a baby to love.

Better not to let the ‘C’ word devour.

—–

Tomorrow night there will be a party,

To celebrate her thirty years on earth.

Many will have with them their other half,

But I’m devasted by many guys these days,

——

I don’t want to be alone, but I’m not desperate,

But to date in your thirties living with Mom,

Makes the dating process harder.

Not to mention it’s hard for me to be out long with my health,

—–

I miss being a couple, but I don’t want my ex back.

I’ve been there before and done that.

And I’ve talked to many guys, they are quick,

And many are sly, they aren’t interested in putting effort in, or talk,

—–

They only want a woman whose warm,

I write stories and I read them too,

Guys in books they don’t exist,

And when I go to write a character,

——

I follow the literary tradition of writing books about guys woman want,

But don’t exist in the real world,

I’m not sure I could write a real guy,

I’m not sure what the ideal real-life guy is like,

——

He would probably eat a lot and want a lot of sheet twisting, 

When you go out, he’d say ‘you choose.’

Then not tell you when he hates it.

And he wouldn’t go with you again,

—–

I don’t think there were ever wonderful princes,

I don’t think there are wonderful millionaires or billionaires.

I think there are a lot of people,

Choosing to stay single because they can’t find their person.

——

But then I see my friends with husbands,

I see their boyfriends and I know they are doing well,

Perhaps, I’m on the outside looking in,

But my past relationship was never quite right.

—–

These are only things I wonder, when I’m tired on a Friday night,

When I had plans but it didn’t work out,

At least I sold my old IPad, slow friend.

And my new one is so fast she purs.

——

And I’m submitting writing to all these different places, 

I’m trying to build a portfolio of published work.

But it takes time to craft stories and poems,

Even posted here, they still require work.

—–

So, If nothing else I am productive,

And looking to live my writing dreams,

The mouse typing  in a pile of rodents spinning, 

Tomorrow my friend is thirty and even that’s not enough time to be friends with her. 

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©Mandibelle. All Rights Reserved.

Flash Fiction, Free Verse, My Thoughts, Poetry, Prose Poetry, Short Stories And Serial Stories, Travel, Writing

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: The Yellow Brick Road


When you go down the yellow brick road,

And find yourself wandering off path,

Be aware that wherever you traverse,

They’re is more than merely witches in the wood,

—–

When you go down the yellow brick road,

And you see the road is turning to grass,

Remember if you keep on walking, they’re whispers,

Of creatures unseen by the common man.

——

When you go down the yellow brick road,

It is courageous to stop and take a forgotten path.

Be aware of danger, be ready to say, “enough is enough.”

While you traverse, seek the wise and avoid the wicked.

—–

When you go down the yellow brick road,

Be prepared there are worse horrors, than fangs, claws, and teeth.

You cannot go home in chucks; where are your ruby slippers?

When you walk this trail prepare yourself, the journey is merciless.

—–

When you go down the yellow brick road,

There is no one to ask for help, no enchantress with a wand.

No little dog to brighten your day, only you walking the barren road.

Darkness is everywhere and light is hours away.

—–
 

http://www.thepublicdomainarchive.com
 

Thanks to Roger Shipp for hosting this Flash Fiction Challenge.

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.