Grey
Focus on me.
Her eyes big as the moon and full as the sun.
Focus. On. Me.
She shook. Fingers pulling through her hair.
Grey, you need to focus on me. You are chaos. Now focus, or I will make you focus.
I had not quite pulled her through to our side of the parallel. All this violent, directionless energy was tying her to her thoughts, and I could not help her to find her physical location. My mind had found her’s easily. We were sitting, knees touching, on opposite sides of a train car. The cabin was closet-like in size and lit only by candle. A stark contrast to where our bodies sat. Though we still sat knee to knee, the bright light and the white of my lab coat were the antithesis of the frenzied train ride. Bullet proof glass surrounded us, small speakers methodically stationed to allow for sound to completely envelop anyone inside the glass room. Two techs in the same white coat as myself stood at the door, ready to enter should I feel endangered.
On the train, I focused on Grey. I lit a cigarette, making sure to blow the smoke away from her wan face.
Glazed expression, hands trembling.
I need you to focus. We are going to get off the train soon.
Her head shook in reflexive disagreement. Fingers, fidgeting against her right leg.
It’s not optional. Look at my eyes.
A shadow cast across the window, and her eyes darted to catch the movement.
Grey, focus on me.
Her gaze made the slow crawl back to my face. And I held her eyes, irises gleaming with soon to fall tears. I sat calm and still. I flicked my cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath my right boot. Smoke curled softly off the ground, bringing the smell of burnt polyester. And her breathing slowed.
Focus on me.
And her hand began to reach for my own.
And the weight of the room shifted. The change in atmosphere derailed us. Men in white entered from the door to the cabin.
Her eyes, wide open, deep and full as the ocean.
Her hands pressed against her ears.
Fear pouring off her skin.
And screaming. Shrill, never-ending screams. Her mouth flung wide. A noise somehow deep and high pitched all at once. The windows burst. Shards of glass flying in all directions. I watched, impassive as the men in white tried desperately to save themselves. But the caterwaul burst them as thoroughly as the glass. Eyes and ears bled. Hemorrhaging stomachs and bursting veins. The skin around the eyes all broken blood vessels with bruised throats and limbs.
In the lab, I lit another cigarette. A cool voice played through the overhead speakers.
Did it work? Are you ok?
I bent down making a show of it. The question ludicrous. I checked pulses, though one could clearly see from the amount of blood that I was the only survivor in the room.
Aside from the fact that you sent these two in to fetch me for no explicable reason that I can see, the small detail of this young lady still being lost in her own mind, and the massacre of blood lying on the ground in front of me...we’re ok.
Stints
Toothpicks.
The boy leaves.
Toothpick.
You burn a body filled with poison then stick it in a jar.
Toothpick.
The girl that helps you find light is distant.
Toothpick.
The music burns your ears and your eyes.
Toothpick.
The man drinks.
Toothpick.
The queen is filled with directionless rage and tears.
Toothpick.
The boy never flies home to you.
Toothpick.
Pills and a bath just hit pause but not stop.
Toothpick.
Words. And words. And words.
Toothpick.
The sisters fight.
Toothpick.
And hospitals.
And toothpicks.
And keep boarding flights.
And toothpicks.
And you’re never quite sure which hand you want to hold.
And toothpicks.
And toothpicks.
And toothpicks.
And no never means no.
And toothpicks.
And the shadows and disease and poison come for everyone you love.
And toothpicks.
And the hearts close up.
And toothpicks.
And toothpicks.
And toothpicks.
Toothpicks.
I didn’t know this was me until I read it.
Hey I’m sorry I miss you,
ya I know it’s not like that
I just don’t want them anymore
I have been so sad for the last year
I don’t know what to do with my life but I’m going back home
You don’t know how much I miss your face but I know it’s been ok so don’t forget about me
Haha ya if only you were the one person who didn’t know you were like a dork but I love you
I know I’m not afraid of anything else
But I am sorry that I’m afraid to be happy with you.
I’m sorry to bother you again.
Calamity
J: It’s agony.
B: I know.
J: What do you mean you know?
B: I know.
J: How could you know? You weren’t there.
B: Even though I wasn’t there, I’ve had to let go as well.
J: I shouldn’t have let go. He was my friend. He was my brother.
B: You had to.
J: No I didn’t.
B: Yes you did.
J: No...
B: It’s ok. It’s not your fault. You did everything you could to save him.
J: He was a fool! He always put himself at risk.
B: Yes, but he was never selfish.
J: No he wasn’t.
B: If he didn’t sacrifice himself, you both would have died.
J: Then we should have died together.
B: That would have been a true catastrophe. He was a hero.
J: But where did it get him? Where did it get us? Now we will never know what was inside.
B: You are also a hero.
J: What are you talking about? We failed! I failed! It was all for naught!
B: You still think the whole mission was a failure? This is about the survival of mankind. He knew what he was getting into when he began this journey many years ago. I’m certain he would have done the same thing if given the chance. He has awarded you another purpose. He ceased his story so you could write another chapter in your chronicle. In our chronicle. In the chronicle of man.
J: We were out there for seventeen years. And all we have to show for it is a corpse floating in space.
B: John, are we not standing on the surface of a planet in the Andromeda galaxy? We have just begun our search...
It Was Me
My uncle had taken me to the park
he was the only adult
who would play tag
or ride down the big slide with me
if i got scared
uncle was mama's baby brother
but i do not know why
she called him baby
he was a teenager
a gazillion years older than me
he drove us back home
drumming his hands on the steering wheel
singing along to the radio
adding in potty words
to make me giggle
when we got back
mama and daddy were waiting
to ask us if we had fun
and to soon
it was time
to hug uncle goodbye
you are going to be a great
dad someday, i said
he smiled
ruffled my hair
but what he did not say
is that he already had a kid
and it was me.
Challenge of the Month
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.