Prose Challenge of the Week #63
Hello, Prosers,
We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!
It’s week sixty-three of the Prose Challenge of the Week.
For the last week, you have been writing about a female Lucifer, and man, did you deliver. Before we check out who the deserving winner and recipient of $100 is, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:
CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.
Now, back to the winner of week sixty-two.
We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the Lucifer challenge is @Delilah49 with their piece, Who is the Devil?
Congratulations! You have just won $100. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.
In the meantime, you have one week to get your write on!
Until next time, Prosers,
Prose.
Who is the Devil?
“Cross God one time, and you will be depicted forever as a bloodied goat man - but I’m the evil one.”
She crossed and uncrossed her legs.
Indeed, the young woman across from me was not unpleasant to look at. She was plain looking, mousy even.
If I had been told that the devil were a woman, my mind would have filled with a vision of a Delilah temptress, forked tongue slipping in my ear while I quivered with waning resistance.
Alas - no swirling smoke, no hopping henchmen. Dressed in crimson satin, a woman devil of my imagination would convince me to do vile things with whimsy.
The woman across from me was buttoned down, no cleavage or flitting eyelashes. She looks like a mom. I try to keep my suspicion, any fool could guess that this was naught but a trick. Blue blouse and khakis did not an innocent make.
“Oh, this isn’t my normal form, this is a rental especially for you.”
A wink, there it was - the trickster was out to play. Ignoring that Lucifer was reading my unexpressed thoughts - I was filled with disgust. This woman possessed, to be used and discarded like some puppet.
“Don’t you recognize me?”
Staccato laughter burst from her, drawing the attention of the tables around us. It was that laugh that began the chill, which poured over my skin like oil.
“This is my fault, I tend to indulge in theatrics.”
She began to change. Sallow shrinking greying meat - half of her face ripped up with a violence, showing bloodless flesh - she laughed again, the laughter strange sounding from behind flapping skin. It was then that I saw the tire marks, which crawled up across her chest before me.
“Remember me now?”
I had tried to forget. Spread on pavement in the dark - I hadn’t gotten a good look. Besides, I had been very drunk.
Fine
"Just bitch and whine!"
"I told you, I'm fine."
I do not seek adjustment - I can only hope to wait out his whiskey. My husband is more malevolent these days.
"I'm fine." He used to say, before I stopped believing him.
He seemed fine, fit and functional - who am I to question method? I am no virgin to dysfunction.
My mother said the same. Father too, fine as well, broken glass - drunk as hell.
Wives are different than daughters, they're drowned by husbands in darker waters.
To Take the Fall (excerpt)
She was in air for a fitful moment, but gravity soon interrupted. A vision of legs and lavender fabric collided with earth -
“humph”
The noise escaped her with the impact, a betrayal of her pride by her body. Her arms followed her legs in a manner equally unceremonious - flailing for orientation.
At once she was still, slapped breathless by the fall. A cloud of dirt held the air above her, and she had every appearance of being dead. The group of men that surrounded her waited curiously, the possibility of her expiration being of little consequence to them. They fidgeted quietly, sleepy-eyed and indifferent.
Lilith was not however, dead; and as her lungs expanded and reclaimed her chest, she coughed fitfully for the dust. She sat up. The men in the circle did not move save for the occasional curious glance at the figure responsible for Lilith’s condition. King Henrick Kane, Lord of this realm, such as it was - continued his surly observation from the deck. He had not moved since launching Lilith off the porch by two fistfuls of her dress.
This King had a penchant for rattling cages. Cruelty - impervious to any counter, a royal indulgence. Preening in self admiration, he ran his palms across his temples and back over an oily sheen of black hair.
Henrick’s henchman - though that term seemed generous - were silent still, some swaying slightly in the breeze of the morning. The collective of their odors was representative of an excess in spirits, and an absence of hygiene. This could be said of their appearance as well, each man looking more like a criminal caricature than the last. They seemed bored by this midmorning drama.
Lilith pulled her legs and dress beneath her - concerned more with hiding her weapon than protecting her modesty. Her dignity, though valuable to Lilith - had proven less useful as of late. It was then that she saw the broken body in the dirt beside her. A familiar man, dead - a bloody broken head. The diplomat!
Her eyes widened,
“What have you done?”
Her voice was hollow, and she paused at the weight of this discovery. The man was a barbarian, and his life was of no sentimental value to her - but he was the political face of a tribe sick with bloodlust. The entire village would answer for this transgression. She stood to face the King, who smiled at her -
“I have done nothing.”
Something in his tone alarmed her. King Henrick continued,
“He was poisoned, some sort of hag’s brew I’m sure. Perhaps in his coffee, I don’t know your methods precisely.”
Her mouth fell open at the lie, and his smile grew wider, delighted by his own performance,
“He fell off his horse once it took effect, and his head was smashed upon a rock. I saw it myself.”
But it wasn’t true, the diplomat was firmly on his horse before Henrick had struck him with the bottle. Half of the hunting party had seen it, and they snickered now from within the ranks. They - much like Henrick, had a penchant for inflicting misery.
“The village already knows you killed one man, what’s another?”
Lilith was breathless - stunned. Though Henrick had unfairly summarized her crime, it was true that many in the village would accept his lie happily - rumors and reputations as they were. The ringing in her ears grew louder, and she shook her head.
“You can’t --”
“Silence, witch. I am still speaking.”
His need for control was palpable.
“You have served me well in your time here, and thus I will allow you one hour.”
She opened her mouth to speak again, and he raised a silencing finger.
“Confess your crime to his people, or I will add the charge of witchcraft. If you do not confess within the hour, you will face justice by my hand.”
His hand would show no mercy, of that she was certain. The king pointed then, gesturing to the forest across the lawn behind Lilith and his men. She turned - wordless, as words would be of no use to her now - and began across the lawn, gathering the front of her dress in hand. Her heart raced in preparation for flight, but Lilith did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her bolt in terror. She fought the storm of adrenaline within her.
It was only moments after that there was a shrill whistle - followed by raucous laughter from the fools behind her. A low sound in the distance grew louder, recognition stopped her heart cold - a howl. A damning sound. Instinct took over, and she began to run, her bare feet padding the grass with increasing pace.
The king threw a final taunt before she disappeared into the trees -
“It would seem my hounds cannot measure an hour!”
Don’t Talk to Strangers
“Don’t talk to strangers.” Mom’s words echo in your head as you stare into the icy eyes glaring at you over the counter. You have tuned out his words by now, but the spit flies from his lips onto your face as his reddens. That old adage rings in your head over and over again as you stare at him; “Don’t talk to strangers.”
Clearly, the man is angry because he believes he has been slighted by the chain that you work for, but the point of the matter is that it isn’t your fault. You wonder how you ended up here, at this dingy workplace, with the flickering lights, and the angry men who spit on you as they scream. You vaguely wonder why your mom’s voice is in your head and are thankful no one can hear it. You resist the urge to wipe the water from your face.
The man is doing all he can to make your blood pressure rise as much as his clearly has. You know, however, that this is not your fault, and is in fact the fault of the chain’s policies. You yourself have faced the blunt end of this stick before, and understand this man’s pain, but are not allowed to articulate it by other company policies.
You are left, soaked to the bone by this man’s anger, ready to give up and throw in the towel. Your work has you exhausted anyway, and now to the point of hearing your mother’s voice in your head. “Don’t talk to strangers.” You’ve decided now that instead of pointing the man to the manager, you’re going to take her advice. You say nothing.
The man stares at you for a long moment after clearly having said his piece. His chest is heaving and he’s moved from red to pink. He takes several deep breaths and soon, turns on his heel and begins walking back toward the front door. You stare at him as he leaves, and see him reach in his pocket for his phone. Your breath hitches as his coat moves aside to realize his concealed carry firearm.
What you ponder for the rest of the day and never find out is that the man had reached a breaking point and was ready to take out the last of his frustrations at his children and wife and job on anyone to provoke him, and had rushed from the house in fear. He had been afraid he would take out his anger on his own children, and so had left the house, ready to take down as many frustrations with him as he could.
What you ponder for the rest of the day and never find out is that the man realizes his need for release and begins to feel better, moving his life from one end to the other reasonably happy. Your silence saved the lives of not only him, but his wife and his children. Your silence leads to more life and words than you could have imagined.
“Didn’t Your Mama Ever Tell You?”
It was a gray day, but she waited nonetheless, counting aloud the lines on the sidewalk the same as she did every day. A gangly family of pigeons scuttled around her worn leather moccasins, as they always did, and she sat complacent and smiling on the same metal bench beneath the same dying oak tree. She was here every day at seven in the morning with nothing but the company of a cheap bag of birdseed, and I imagined she probably didn’t travel too far away at any given time.
I jogged this path religiously and always wondered if she’d noticed me as I’d noticed her. It seemed no one else who followed this trail paid any mind to her at all, but against the drab landscape of the city park, she stood out like a spotlight to me. Faded pink floral trousers and a tattered white Donald Duck tee were her mainstays, but today she wore a yellow crocheted beanie on her head, pulled all the way over her ears. Yesterday her hat was green, and I’ve even once seen it red with white stripes around the Christmas season. Her head was the only thing about her that ever changed.
Today I stopped. Today I said hello and gave her my name, but her expression didn’t budge. Her counting, however, ceased without a hitch as soon as I spoke. She continued to smile her nearly vacant smile and said, “Hello. My name's Amanda.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” I wasn’t expecting a response, so, surprised, I could only reply in observation, “I see you here every day, ma’am.”
I can’t be certain why I decided to approach her. Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps concern, but as I attempted to read what may or may not have been amusement at my disregard for well-mannered conversation on her face, I sure wished I’d taken the time to think of something thoughtful to say.
“I see you here every day, ma’am,” she replied, and the corners of her mouth rose towards her ears by only a hair. Yes, she was amused.
I didn’t have an intention of being rude, but I couldn’t help but study her. She sat silent, still gazing into the direction I’d come from, so it was easy to stare. Lines had formed in arcs where her mouth curved, as if she had been frozen into a grin for a lifetime. Crow’s feet tapered into soft, pale papery cheeks, and she was tiny, thin as a rail, smelling of peanut butter and mildew. She must have been at least eighty.
“M-may I sit for a moment with you,” I was hesitant for the split second before I asked, but I did so with a friendly nod of my own, and she answered, “May I sit for a moment with you?”
I made sure to seat myself close enough on the metal bench to feel amicable but not too close for comfort, and I attempted to carry on this seemingly one-sided conversation.
“So, are you from here - from Chicago?” She faithfully kept her sight locked on the tunnel I’d emerged from and repeated me once again, “So, are you from here - from Chicago?”
“Um, okay. Yeah, I am. Are you hungry? Would you like to get some breakfast together?” Somehow, her reply was easily predictable, “Um, okay. Yeah, I am. Are you hungry? Would you like to get some breakfast together?”
Obviously this woman was a little loose mentally, so I stood slowly and bent towards her, my palm open for hers. I thought I may as well take matters into my own hands.
“Yes, I am! I’m starving. There’s a little diner right around the -"
Before I could finish, she gripped tight to my wrist - wild, bloodshot eyes burned fervently into my own. They danced with an ominous menace I'd never seen, and her smile was now wide and maniacal, filled with rotten brown teeth and reeking of decayed meat.
Her voice was different than before, something like a deep Creole accent shot from her putrid mouth as she continued to smirk, "Di'nt you Ma-Ma evuh tell you to don't talk to stranguhs, gal? That how you get took!"
The "k"she cracked with her closing "took" annunciated a warning so vile that my head spun. My heart stopped for just that moment, her cackle filled my air so thick I could not catch a breath. I ripped my hand from her grasp, tripping backwards on my heels, and hit the pavement.
Then I just ran. I ran away in the style of a campy horror movie victim, knowing I was doomed to something, somehow. I couldn't hear her laughter as I fled back through the tunnel I'd entered by, but I didn't stop. I dug my feet into the concrete and pushed my knees into the light from the other side, racing for dear life.
But something wasn't right. My heart was screaming, and I couldn't breathe. A sharp stab tore through the back of my skull, and I couldn't help but wonder if I was having a stroke or something worse. My ribs cracked as if I'd never run a day in my life. This didn't make sense. I ran marathons on my goddamn period, for heaven's sake!
Heaving, I found the main road beyond the park's tunnel entrance. The little diner I wanted to bring her to sat with an inviting wooden bench out front, so I stumbled towards it for relief.
As I approached, the window caught a glimpse of her yellow beanie. She must have followed me somehow. How the hell was she so fast?
I twisted to catch her, aching left shoulder blade and crackling knees, heart still beating out of my head, but she was nowhere to be seen. I must have imagined it.
I collapsed onto the bench seat, slouching haggardly and dripping sweat, panting like a dog in heat. It must have been the panic. I couldn't understand what the hell about that old bag scared me so badly, but I'd never freaked out so hard in my life.
Suddenly, a faded floral pattern, pink roses and paisley came into focus as I sat nearly doubled over. Wrinkled hands pocked in liver spots and mottled with bulging blue veins dangled between my thighs. My thighs.
I shot out of the bench and pulled myself to the diner window, searching for my reflection, but I couldn't find it. What stood in that window was a wretched old witch wearing a Donald Duck tee and smirk straight from hell, mocking me. A yellow beanie sat atop her head.
I screamed for help, but no one heard. I grabbed at passersby, but they took no notice of me. I couldn't run any longer, I was too winded, so I just fell. I knew I was sobbing, and I knew this was impossible, but touching my cheeks, there were no tears. Only a smile that would not leave. Only rotten teeth and the smell of my rank mouth penetrating my nostrils.
I had to get back to her. She never left the park bench, and she was going to fix this. I didn't know what was happening to me. I didn't know if I was dreaming. I didn't know who I even was, but this was not my body and those were not my fucking trousers.
The walk back to the park was a blur, probably faster than it felt, and my heart never had a chance to slow down. The tunnel seemed a hundred miles long in my condition. I was only twenty five, but I had become a corpse in waiting.
Finally, the bench was in view, but she was gone. I was gone. I wasn't even sure what I was expecting to find. People everywhere, but no one that resembled me, and I was the only person here that was her. No one heard me, no one saw me. I was nothing.
Sitting on the bench was a bag of birdseed, so I joined it. I waited for myself to return, to emerge from that tunnel at seven the next morning as I always did. To find me sitting on this same old park bench, under this same dying oak tree. I was here every morning, but I never came.
********
It was a gray day, but she waited nonetheless, counting aloud the lines on the sidewalk the same as she did every day. A gangly family of pigeons scuttled around her worn leather moccasins, as they always did, and she sat complacent and smiling on the same metal bench beneath the same dying oak tree. She was here every day at seven in the morning with nothing but the company of a cheap bag of birdseed, and I imagined she probably didn’t travel too far away at any given time.
I don't know why, but I decided to say hello today, and I did.
"Hello, ma'am. I'm Brady. I see you here everyday, so I thought I should say hello."
She responded, "Hello, ma'am. I'm Brady. I see you here everyday, so I thought I should say hello."
Juice Me Up.
Morning, Prosers,
We interrupt your usual Prosing schedule to bring you news of our latest feature update.
As of right now, we have implemented a feature in which ALL Prosers can earn coins.
All posts now have a new button. Juice. This Juice button allows fellow Prosers to tip your words. Have you ever read a piece and thought, “Damn, that’s good?” Well now, when you do, you can show your appreciation above and beyond a like or a comment, and send them some Juice.
Prosers can donate between 10 and 10,000 coins per post to the author. Authors receive 80% royalties which will be deposited straight into the wallet of said author.
Received donations can be viewed in the “Sales History” tab on the website.
This feature is currently only available on the website. However, we are working on bringing this to iOS as we speak. Remember, you can spend your coins on both platforms, but you can only buy coins on the web.
Once we have updated the iOS version to reflect the Juice button, push notifications to alert you of kind donations will be active.
We will also be adding a Juice button to profiles in the not-so-distant future.
Not only this, but we have also banished a number of pesky bugs too. Be gone, and good riddance!
We are working on a number of new things to keep us busy, but as always, if something isn’t working how it should be or if you have any questions, get in touch with us. We are always happy to help!
Until next time, Prosers,
Get Juicing.
Prose.
I’ll be Damned.
I'm sorry to tell you this, honey, but please listen close.
It has something to do with where we’ll rest our souls.
A while ago, I sold mine to the Devil.
Not for money or power or love, though he haggled.
I gave it to Lucifer, I gave it for keeps.
I let him have it for a moment of peace.
And that ol’ naughty Satan, do you know what he did?
He snatched my soul; in it's place, a demon now lives.
So, sorry dove, but I won't be with you when you see those pearly gates.
I’ll be ruling in hell, sipping tea with some snakes.