the sun drowns into the horizon

I watch it bleed blood-orange

greedy and gripping to the day

against the gravity of celestial porridge

and banal boundless black

the sky weighs a blanket of stones

it's bruising into rotting blues

yet there is art in the aches

awe in the golden hour views

and ataraxia in the two-past-nines

we marvel at this

beguiling beauty

of bittersweet death

I am a stitch in a swatch of people

Hush whispering, wheels rolling, walls humming

The bus's lights glow dozing blue and dull

The liminal sings through rhythmic drumming

A man in dirt-caked cargos strums his bass

A woman wearing cleavage cries quietly

The endless strings of souls I can't amass

An archive of loves and lives lost to me

A bloodless voice from speakers above

A boy flees past the doors onto concrete

Never will I see his worn face hereof

The basses strings simmer beneath my feet

Heavy eyes; brush of a bony shoulder

Listerine and cleat cheese down the corner

<>< <>< <><

sweet slow summers,

shy skittish kisses by the swing set,

picking and skipping rocks by the shifting stream.

the soft petals of callow youth fall silently on oblivious grasses.

time has no patience.

how your bloody clock hands are choking me!

now your summers are begging,

and your kisses are begging,

and the stream is crying and burly.

and i beg of u sweet summer water,

let me swim upstream with the spry scarlet salmon,

through the salty blue pacific,

slip by the frothy currents,

and sleep eternally in silky grey sands of innocence.

If I had tomorrow,

with no limits,

I would drive,

drive for as long as need,

I would find a lake,

a big open empty lake,

and I would Just sit.

I would just sit by the lake,

all day long.

sunrise,

to sunset.

All day to myself,

swimming,

paddle Boarding,

watching the water.

Just all day,

by myself,

on the lake,

Tomorrow.

Preteen girls on the playground parked on the curb, plucking their dying daisies,

"Does he love me? Does he not?".

It's unfair- let them be me! I sit on the curb of thirteen- sleepless,

"Am I? Aren't I? I can't be!"

My sweat and tears are dipped in misery, "Do I like her? Do I not?".

If god's there why'd he do this to me, "Why me! Why me!"

The 'normal' girls were content; I was dragged unwillingly.

Is my love not worth these daisies?

So now, when I tell you,

"I am."

How dare you tell me,

"You can't."?

Sweet gossamer of socialites,

I've never felt so damn lonely.

A spectator, silent from sights,

Omniscient reality.

Mind out of bounds- six miles in height.

We laugh and share scam smiles of glee!

I talk yet why do I sound mute?

We are imposters in black suits.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

First off, let me say to the winning entry for last week: I did a long deep-dive into your profile after the narration and congratulations, then my entire setup crashed, rebooted just fine, but trashed a large chunk of the edited video. We'll make it up to you soon with a feature, stand on us. And: Congrats!!!! You wrote one hell of a story.

Also featured is a poem by one of our veteran writers, and it put the staff in a good and somber mood, in all the best ways. See all of this and the new Challenge of the Week just below this sentence.

https://youtu.be/lVdq_kwxGm4

https://theprose.com/challenge/14067

And.

As Always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

The shower is cool,

My head is hot.

My breath is begging,

It wants to wail murder.

Apparently, it's not socially acceptable.

I'll settle for this soft onslaught of water,

This snail trail of bubbles.

I can hardly remember,

What birthed this loathing,

This huddle halted in my throat.

The little baby crying?

The lady yelling?

The lack of parking?

Crap, I've been brooding not bathing.

My water bill.

I need to start lathering.

I snag the soap from the shower sill.

It squirms in my wrinkling fingers,

It smiles in pink suds and slithers out.

Plick.

The knot is rising.

It's sitting at the back of my tongue.

Don't let it out.

I bend down to pick up the soap.

It's sly; it slips again.

Plick.

The knot is at my teeth.

And it's learned a silly trick.

It slips through the cracks of my clenched grinding,

An escaped convict.

My knees hit slick white ceramic.

I silently scream.

Mouth wide open.

The white porcelain walls are watching.

My storms are now scalding.

The cold water isn't helping.

I curl.

I can't tell the tears from the shower- still spraying.

The knot is gone.

To hell with the water bill.

The world is a watercolor spill of bleeding oranges and reds. It reminds me of groggy balmy afternoons in the backseat of our Ford, eyes closed, distant soft chatter, sun in my eyes, cheek burning on the hot window. Except, my eyes are open and my lashes are brushing on cheap cloth. My back aches on gritty concrete. Am I being kidnapped? Sold? Killed? I need to breathe. I let gulps of dusty cool air fill my burning insides. A timid set of thuds surround me till I feel hot breath and something soft and wet under my right eye, viscous liquid spills down my face. I can feel my insides madly battling the air, begging to leave in screams. I begin to thrash against soft binds. Breathe. I can smell the manure, faint copper, and dead grass. I still, as if it would help me smell better, escape better; that's when I smell the faraway scent of overripe cherries and old cigarettes. It was Marilynn's signature scent. She was a sweet nurse far younger than Dad who had just married him three weeks ago- though I wasn't close enough to call her mom, a pact of respect silently stood between us. The memory of her sets off a technicolor hit of dizzy recollections; the Ford, a needle, a quiet moon, shouts, cold fingers on my wrist, and Marilynn wrapping rope on my ankles. As the current situation sinks in, shock, confusion, and horror swims in my head. What the hell are Marilynn's intentions? Where is Dad? Was I wrong about her? Was I about to die? My panicked flurry is interrupted by a needle's prick at my inner elbow. I try to scream, to kick, to flip out in protest- but I'm frozen. Familiar cold fingers slowly untie my blindfold, and the previous orangey-red blur turns into the blinding white sun framed by a barns door. At the center of the light is Marilynn. I can barely recognize her, there is worry painting her face and desperation gripping the corners of her eyes. This was not the face of a criminal. Guilt begins to pool at my belly, perhaps the memories were delusions, perhaps I had misjudged her far too quickly. "Baby, I'm so sorry", her eyes shift downwards. I need to move, to do something, say something, but I stand as a spectator in a body that now feels barely my own. "You're just so perfect, I need you", a heavy breath leaves her mouth, and there's an erratic wildness to her movements. Her eyes dart to the cows who roam in the periphery- absolutely oblivious to my world falling in total disarray. "They- the cows aren't enough, I need your sweetness, your soul. You know... I married Steven just for you." My mind is beginning to fog, was it the confusion or maybe the needle? Marilynn slowly brings up two fingers to the side of my neck, and a whisper escapes her, "Your sweet blood". The previous guilt has been replaced with horror, what nightmare had I arrived in? "I don't want to do this, but you don't want me to die, do you honey, I need you!" The edges of the light are going black, and she throws something to the right of me. She's holding a bottle of mouthwash-she swigs from it violently, "Trust me, it doesn't get any easier every week, I don't want to do this." The world is black. I'm too weak to feel anything. The screams in my throat have died. Hot air spills on the right of my neck, "You won't remember this baby, I'll patch you up perfectly", Marilynn whispers, as if to convince herself. With the piercing puncture of teeth into my flesh, and the assaulting smell of metal- my senses disappear. I'm gone.

Her work wasn’t challenging. For her, that was. Her entire life, she had felt torn from the norm– Hunting those that did the same wasn’t much of a difference. She sought out the peculiar and ensured it wouldn’t bother those that knew less of it than she did. The pay was enough to cover her rent and a meal or two at the café twice a day, though admittedly, Alastair helped her out more than he should’ve.

She was standing on the cobblestone steps of a rickety old cottage owned by Ms. Campbell. A sweet old woman scared out of her wits because she believed something harmful was in her walls. At least, that’s what Constance had picked up from the letter she had been sent. She had done a great deal of walking to get there, as the bus only took her as far as the edge of the forest, and from there, she needed to take a rather windy path to the secluded home.

She raised her hand and promptly knocked at the door, still wiping croissant crumbs from her forest-green skirt that swung smoothly around her ankles.

Before she could finish knocking, the door was pulled open from the opposite side. Her hair was messy, and her eyes were crazily distant.

“Oh good, you’re here. This thing has been bothering me all day and night!” Ms. Campbell scuttled aside, motioning for Constance to enter. She bowed her head and smiled before stepping through the doorway.

“I have a few questions before we begin our examination, Ms. Campbell,” Constance spoke smoothly, with ease she had learned from many cases since the day she first ran from home. She had stayed in her hometown, which made it far easier to work, seeing as she was familiar with many of the people here– Her family had moved soon after the incident, allowing her to emerge from hiding and begin starting her own life.

Solving mysteries was a hobby she had while striving for a place in her family. Now, she could turn a corner and be presented with one– One she could solve within a day and get paid for. It was heavenly. Exhausting, seeing as she was the one the entire town turned to whenever something slightly piqued their curiosity, similar to how Ms. Campbell likely just had a tiny critter in her walls.

“Of course. I’ve made tea; please, sit and have some.” Her house was maximalist, to put it lightly. The walls were crammed with mirrors and paintings galore, without so much an inch left untouched. The floors were cluttered with boxes and furniture placed uncomfortably close together and looked as if they might fall apart with so much as a blow.

Constance gingerly sat by the coffee table, accepting the ornate teacup her client offered.

“What kind of tea?” She questioned, raising it to her lips.

“Hibiscus and lemon balm, supposedly good for the soul,” she poured herself a large glass and gulped down the contents within seconds.

She let the sweet mixture slide across her tongue for a moment and fought to keep a straight face as she placed it delicately back on the glass table. “Thank you very much,” she smiled in thanks. “Let’s talk about this creature; why don’t we?”

“Oh, oh right,” she placed her empty teacup down. “You can call me Amelia first,” she smiled and cleared her throat. “Secondly– My apologies if my description isn’t quite up to par. I haven’t slept very much because of all the scratching.”

“No worries at all, go on,” Constance crossed her legs and intertwined her fingers over her knee, listening intently.

“Well, it started just about a week ago. Nothing seemed to trigger it– It just happened. I thought it was some sort of critter and waited it out… But the longer I waited, the worse it got,” Ms. Campbell’s voice was hushed as if she believed the creature would hear her if she were to talk too loud. “Eventually, I woke up in the middle of the night to see boxes toppled over or lamps on the ground– And holes in the walls!”

“Holes in the walls?” Constance tilted her head. “How large?”

Amelia stood, wobbling over to the wall and removing a rather large picture frame to reveal a decently sized hole in the wall. Two feet by two feet, she estimated– But the size wasn’t the most shocking feature. It was its perfection. The hole had been strategically carved as if with some kind of tool. It was a perfect circle.

“Hm,” Constance stood, walking over and quickly ducking her head through the hole.

“Oh! Constance, are you sure–” Amelia began.

“Very,” Constance hummed, pursing her lips and squinting before pulling her head back out of the wall.

After a moment of dusting herself off, the two sat back down once more.

“What do you think it is?” Ms. Campbell bit her lip.

“Well, in all honestly, Amelia,” Constance inhaled. “I haven’t a clue. I’ve never seen anything like this,” she shook her head and exhaled. “Best I can tell you to do for now is stay with a family member and wait until I figure out what this is.”

“A family member,” the old woman glanced at the thick phonebook resting atop a pile of boxes. “I suppose I could do that….”

“Perfect!” Constance stood, grasping her briefcase and clicking it open. “For now, wear this as protection,” she sifted through the many necklaces she held stacked in her case and removed one in particular, with a sigil carved into light gray stone. She closed the briefcase once more and handed it over to the woman.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” she gathered the necklace into her hands and quickly tossed it over her head. “I cannot thank you enough,” she slipped a hand into her pocket and removed the keys to her home. “Take these for when you come back later. I should be all set up by then.”

“I haven’t even started,” Constance smiled brightly and held her briefcase with two hands. “I’ll come back later today after a bit of research and take it on.”