“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.

"Wow. Ok so it's going to be like this then? Ok fine. You know what? Screw you. I don't need you, screw you. I've been trying to make this work for what feels like ages and...and I'm just done! I'm done trying! Does that make you happy you piece of s***? You're full of crap I don't even know why I care so much. You took everything from me, that's all you do isn't it? You just take, take take, take. And I'm just supposed to expect nothing in return? I HAVE NEEDS! I JUST WANT SOME DAMN RESPECT! IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK? IS THAT TOO MUCH TO FREAKING ASK? I want you to respect me, I want you to respect my money. I worked hard for that s*** ok? Who are you to just take it like that? And I ain't ever getting it back am I? Do you enjoy taking advantage of poor girls like me? Makes you feel real good about yourself doesn't it? But you ain't no human, you're a machine. You have no heart. You freaking got no heart! And you just looked too damn perfect and I believed in you. I believed in you. I could've picked another, but I picked YOU. I just feel so betrayed...I feel cheated, lied to, and...rejected. Screw you ok? Screw you!"

I watched in a sort of awed silence as the girl shouted all sorts of abuses, ending in a swift kick. When she looked like she was about to cry I finally interjected, "Ma'am, you know there's another vending machine upstairs right?"

"But it's out of the Nacho Cheese Doritos! Besides, this machine already took my money and is STILL saying that it has rejected my payment. UGHHH I just wanted some Doritos...."

Gold magic coin

rest upon my palm

why fly, why on the edge!

antediluvian gold diggers

who ceaselessly sought your care

you disobeyed, and at your will

evaded their deepest supplications

So many girls

come and go

of face,

indeed very fair

fair and vain

—vain enough to get mixed up

in the game

a game played by men

with big purses,

bigger dreams,

and opprobrious conducts

so many girls

came and went

bent to scorn

and disease,

braved hunger

till malnutrition

intervened

some bent to needles for oodles of cash

some came solely for few spreads

on that vanity-fair

some of them only made a dollar

a handful were a sex symbol

two or three

mastered the game,

and thus remained in the arena of lights

blinding lights, exciting nights

enticing class

so many girls

bought into that life

of lights and lies

newspaper headlines

Hollywood pop-icon types

so many girls

lost their lives

trying to fit into a box,

a thin line of perfection

imagined by fanatics

where self love lacks significance

and double digits on the scale

an epithet of greatness,

of beauty, of sexism

of Vanity!

Good Afternoon, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

It’s week fifty-nine of the Prose Challenge of the Week.

For the last week or so, you guys have been writing about injustice, and you all gave exactly what we wanted. Before we check out who the deserving winner, and the recipient of $150 is, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:

Challenge of the Week #59: Modernise Shakespeare’s ‘Shall I Compare Thee’ sonnet. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit

Now, back to the winner of week fifty-eight.

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the “injustice” challenge is @MikeRich15 with their piece, Olive them, olive me.

Congratulations! You have just won $150. 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.

Caught in surprise by Winter's wretched witch,

Breath of whom has frozen the tears she's cried.

Hope is lost within the night black as pitch;

From her true love, wicked fate to divide.

Her life but a dismal speck far away;

Trapped in the ice is a life not chosen.

Without flight, she'll die, soaring bird of prey.

Without fight, she'll try with no emotion.

New day cries mournful in a seasick sky;

A warm ray of light, to thaw may commit.

Her precious heart must crack this ice to fly!

Behold! Gossamer wings again sunlit!

A high flying bird will prove transcendent,

Not turning the page, she'll live resplendent.

Writing is a journey

on which when I commence,

words can unsheathe

or masquerade suspense.

Words bleed on the page

as emotions get a face;

fighting fierce battles,

or displaying plain grace.

When the world's an anathema,

words are the best friend;

as when the speaking gets tough,

they're truly a godsend.

~@nehasri

#Challenge #Words #Poetry

Knowledge opens the shards

of frozen ice to reveal reason why

mind is helplessly chained to wall,

unleashes boundaries from pen -

a new awakening of amber glow

as sun filters mind breaking shackles,

opening up knowledge to consume

the ancient stones, infancy of truths.

Abandoned harmony of life threads dance

kneeling in balance of life bursting forth

like ripe, dripping peaches of wisdom,

resonating on night wind – savage possession

kindled with pain and pleasure entwined,

budding wisdom and time-worn realities,

maze of verity cursed by thirst of all-knowing

reaching for promise in distant starlit skies,

yearning to share bounty of far flung vistas.

Knowledge drives wisdom on wings of fancy,

breathing beneath tangled debris of mind

following different roads to same destination,

fulfilling fiery wishes of uncloaked secrets.

Mystery is disguised by masks of seeking

the bruises of battle scars leading the way,

cherished thoughts of enlightenment unlock

puzzles of mind, opening clear view to lost images.

Windows of light glimmer throughout the denseness,

healing begins and filters through opening mind,

a cocoon awakening to that which you seek

in moonlit sonatas sharing what is meant to be.

Knowledge is not about learning alone but sharing

wisdom imparted in simplicity before submitting

to the mindless grave, watching knowledge march on.

Addicted to

writing,

I shake poetry

out of my sleeves.

Drunk with

celestial parade

of shiny words,

tumbling into

rising sun,

praying to

the muse hiding

behind me

in black voids

of rejection.

Time down drain

of moneyless pit,

coded language

that only writers

understand.

Roaring visions

and echoes

resonating,

seeing the world

from my perspective

without winning

or losing.

Mood changing

poetry therapy

polished trances

as I crave

the high

that only writing

can bring.

I drink of it

deeply in

vertigo

of love.