The earth sighed seven times.

The first morning she heaved – oceans of garbage flooded beaches like tourists, never resting until the seas were emptied of every human relic ever tossed off a ship, every wine cork long forgotten after empty smiles and shallow promises, every distorted piece of plastic that brought momentary ease, fleeting joy, or a bit of convenience- then she sighed.

My dog barked seven times that day. No more, no less.

I hoped it was over, but then came the second morning. A guttural cough rumbled under my feet, and the world erupted. Every dormant volcano came alive with fire, and steam, and spirals of smoke. The seas began to boil and rage and roar, and then I feared it was the end. But it wasn’t. The earth sighed a second time.

My dog barked six times that day. No more, no less.

The third morning, the earth burbled and burped until every human corpse was lifted from its resting place. On land, they rolled out of the ground onto perfectly landscaped yards and gardens and ruined the mood for many a party. This one felt personal. My old dog was buried in the back. His resting place lay undisturbed while bloated bodies bobbed alongside buoys in oceans, and lakes, and rivers, and oh, what a stink! That night she sighed again, and I thought I heard mirth in the sound of it.

Five barks from my dog that day. No more, no less.

The fourth morning the earth groaned and the ground ruptured and fractured – consuming governments, and swallowing civilizations, and splitting countries, and families, and even hairs. Well, I only guessed that last part. Then the earth sighed a fourth time.

My dog barked four times after I fetched her out of the rubble. No more, no less.

The fifth morning the earth sang – through warbling birds and whistling trees, through the bellows of whales and the humming of bees – and it was beautiful! The song was full of hope and new beginnings. But many could not hear her song, though the sound was deafening. Men cleaved to their old ways, licking honey from thorns that split their tongues and numbed their senses, and the poison – oh the poison! Millions died because of it, and it seeped back into the earth. That night the earth was silent. Perhaps she was thinking. The quiet unnerved me as I bolted my doors, listening for earth’s song but only hearing the sounds of booted men patrolling streets, and cocking guns, and shuttered blinds, and whirring blades from aircraft overhead. Finally, the earth sighed a weary sigh.

Three barks that night. Three damning barks. No more, no less.

I awoke the sixth morning with a start as the earth shrieked. I covered my ears, and my cheeks flushed with heat at the pain in her voice. Her cries were desperate. They were horrifying. They were accusing. And they were powerful. Earth’s protective ozone shattered, and my skin blistered and cracked under the heat of the sun. I barricaded myself in the cellar as the top of my roof melted away into nothing. As night fell, the earth sighed a sixth time.

My dog barked twice. No more, no less.

I knew the seventh morning was our last, for the earth laughed. It was bitter and full of sorrow. It summoned the heavens forward, and they came. Meteors, and floating ice, and blazing stars struck the earth so violently they sent chunks of her spinning, spinning everywhere. They ripped her clothes and tore her flesh, but her response was laughter. Crazed, terrifying laughter. And then she sighed. Our beautiful, broken earth sighed. One final, mournful, dreadful sigh.

My dog barked once that morning. Now she lay mute in my lap as I pet her. I know she has no more barks for me. I close my eyes and take one last breath.

No more, no less.

You’d like that,

something permanent,

like your tattoos,

a plaque somewhere,

with your name on it,

a bronze bust of your face.

Yeah, you’d like that,

like the smell of your grandfather’s kitchen,

eating ziti and lamb meatballs,

because no one ever dies,

and you have a solid place to stand,

feet firmly planted on that old yellow linoleum.

You would love it,

something permanent,

a pillar, a rock, an afterlife,

but you’re plummeting in the dark,

and there’s nothing to hang on to,

a tranquil freefall,

faces change,

the mirror ages,

nothing lasts,

and, maybe,

there is no point,

you’re scared,

because your falling,

breathe

because

there

is

no

g

r

o

u

n

d

Happy November Writers and Readers;

Fall is a time of change, a time of ponderance, preparation, and preservation. And with the final month of fall comes our first $100 Challenge of the Month, wherein we explore the bright colors and darkening skies of autumn. Not only will the winner receive the $100 purse, we’ll also be sharing all outstanding submissions with our publishing partners and contacts. When you’re ready to get started, you’ll find the prompt here: https://theprose.com/challenge/7775. Best of luck!

With the arrival of our monthly challenge, we thought we’d shed a little light on how we’ll be judging your entries (and how we’ve been judging your entries in the Challenge of the Week). In particular we look for: creativity, fire, memorability, coherence, proper grammar, and linguistic mastery. Let’s take a closer look.

The First Paragraph

We read a lot of your writing, and usually don’t have the time to give every word and sentence the attention they deserve. As such, we will commonly eliminate entries immediately if the first couple of paragraphs are rife with spelling or grammatical errors, don’t read clearly, or don’t intrigue. Our advice - make your first paragraph your best paragraph. Make it captivating and irresistable. Make it shine. More advice on how to do so below.

Creativity

Written creativity can take many forms, and pervades every category along which we judge. It could take the form of compelling characters, exotic settings, unusual word choice, unique story arcs, and everything in-between. We want to think “wow, I would never have expected/conceived of/realized that.”

Fire

Fire is passion. We want to see your love for the craft of composition shine through. Whether a controlled burn, or a raging blaze, we want to see your dedication to the story, the characters, the poetry, and the craft. Some of the best writing reads as though the author agonized over every syllable.

Memorability

This is related to creativity, but somewhat different. It hinges a bit more specifically on the author’s ability to clearly convey that creativity. As we’re reading challenge entries, we keep a list of the pieces that catch our eye. When we’re done, we go back over that list of top contenders and choose the winner(s). More often than not, we’ll choose the stories we remember most vividly. In addition to compelling characters and themes, little details can go a long way towards making a piece more memorable. A perfectly crafted sentence. A witty title. A surprising interaction.

Coherence

Your writing should be lucid and coherent. If it’s hard to follow the plot, be it theater or thesis, it’ll be difficult to win. Avoid rambling, over-description, and muddled thoughts. Read your work back to yourself as though you hadn’t written it. Ask yourself, “what am I trying to communicate? Did I do so clearly? Is any of this hard to follow?” If we find ourselves lost or unsure of what’s going on anymore, we usually move along.

Spelling & Grammar

Do not underestimate the importance of proper spelling and grammar. Here at Prose, we respect, if not revere, the King’s English. While we forgive the rogue missing letter or misplaced comma (it happens to the best of us), repeated offenses and gross negligence are to be avoided at all costs. You are of course free to make stylistic choices like omitting capitalization; but unless it’s in the service of some artistic vision it’ll generally be frowned upon.

Linguistic Mastery

This is the x-factor, and the thing that sets great writing apart from good writing. This is proper useage of metaphor, descriptive language, imagery, word choice, alliteration, sentence/paragraph composition, overall flow, finesse, nuance, restraint, and everything in-between. For examples of “linguistic mastery,” please read some of the winning entries from our Challenge of the Week. The winners typically demonstrate a high degree of mastery in their work. To further illustrate what we mean, consider the following two sentences:

“The crows’ calls blared through the quiet like a siren, a dreadful cacophony that rose and fell like the tide, under the chilling, pale light of the full moon.”

“The shrieking of the crows sliced the silence, an unholy symphony beneath a cold, ghostly moon.”

Both are more interesting than “The crows were cawing loudly in the moonlight.” But the first exhibits a sort of scattershot approach, calls upon multiple disjointed metaphors, and betrays a lack of restraint. The second, by contrast, by surgical use of words like “sliced,” “unholy,” and “ghostly,” evokes a certain eeriness. It feels more intentional, and reads more clearly.

These are just a few of the things we look for, and we urge you not to think of them as some sort of “checklist” or “rubric.” Hopefully this has been informative, and will be of aid to you as your craft your entries.

Happy writes,

Prose.

I hope you're ready for late night White Castle runs, and singing Guns N' Roses songs at the top of our lungs. I hope you're ready for cereal for dinner, and watching Dirty Dancing three times in a row. I hope you're ready to chase each other through the kitchen, our socks sliding on the cold tile floor. I hope you're ready for board games at 2AM, and unplanned naps at 2PM. I hope you're ready for my unhealthy obsession with Elvis Presley, and driving to PetSmart just to play with puppies. I hope you're ready for Harry Potter marathons, and holding my hand while you drive. I hope you're ready for the arguments that end with us crying, and the ones that end with us laughing. I hope you're ready for the midnight "I love you's," and the midnight "scoot the fuck over's." I hope you're ready for my brown eyes, and the honey-glaze that covers them when they see you. I hope you're ready to love me like a song, and to carry me like a soul. I hope you're ready for everything in between the frail walls of my heart, and the vivid scars that reside there. I hope you're ready for my shaking voice apologizing for my mistakes, and my warm, hopeful hands clinging to your chest. I hope you're ready to forgive me, to hold me, to cherish me. I so desperately hope you're ready for our unconditionally holy, intensely passionate, infinitely child-like, crazed love, because my heart beats like a racehorse thinking of the track we're going to run.