Thank you to those who participated in my challenge. 24 people have entered the challenge and I read through every single one of them. Although I didn't comment on every single prompt (I apologize if I didn't comment on yours), each piece resonated with me in a way. Every single one of you deserve at least an honorble mention, but since it is a challenge, I must make it fair and square and select only one winner - that one winner who successfully resonated me the most. That one winner who gave me an existential crisis (in a good way).

The winner who won a resonation trophy.

So with that, congrats to @maestesauthor for winning this challenge! Your prompt has touched me in a way that it made so much sense. You uniquely answered the prompt that it immediately caught my eye on the first sentence. Because it was so relatable, it deeply touched me in a way, almost as if there was another version of me out there.

Edit: I forgot to put the link to their prompt, lemme do that real quick (send them huge support please)

https://theprose.com/post/759307/the-forgotten-child

Here is your resonation trophy *grabs resonation trophy from the basement, where it was safely locked in a safe* You now have bragging rights to flex on your invisible resonation trophy.

Each piece of writing was deeply felt. If you did not win, again, there is always next time because I usually regularly make new challenges! Each piece of writing told me something about you that made me think, Who hurt you this time? I wish I could assign a winner to more than one person, but since we're playing fair and square here, only one person can be the winner.

And here is a participant trophy to those who participated!

*grabs 24 participant trophies made out of bronze from the basement, also kept in a safe*

Anyways, take care, stay real, and continue to inspire.

xx

the worst place i ever lived, i can not help but revisit

it is hard to get away from our old haunts

no matter how miserable isn’t it?

each time i show back up, everything is different

the rooms are uncomfortable

and when there, i never feel quite with it

i hate when i find myself in that awful place

the way it feels, the grief the loss, the blankness

in every familiar and yet unfamiliar face

the idea of being there brings me such anxiety

i hate it

especially the time

it seems to be an hour a second-

in that place in my mind

most times, someone invites me there

unknowingly and on purpose

i hate the way the foundation feels

and the texture of every surface

i could be so happy

if i never had to visit

what is the key to just moving far away

to go as far away as possible- is that it?

there is just one small space

that feels comfortable in those Halls,

a tiny area, all my own

in that awful, draining place

i don’t want to feel this way

about where i should be at least somewhat safe

but no one there remembers me

even less when I beg to be seen in haste

it is my childhood, my adolescence, and adulthood

once for a short time it was not all bad-

there used to be so much good

my past, present.... and future

now i realize

where i fall everytime i stop feeling

present, wanted, safe, or alive

it’s in that place now,

the only time i wish i could be dead

the place i hate to be the most-

my own rotting head

I lived half my life there

So close inside them

That I nearly disappeared

There’s almost no place

I’d rather not be

I need his kind of sanctuary

Like I need a sugar coated cyanide tab

It was killing me anyway

Perhaps that poison

would have been kinder

Perhaps, at this moment, as I sit and ponder

Future me somewhere will look back and wonder

And smile, and think, as her arms nimbly cross,

“How can one lose again what never was lost?”

That future me maybe could answer your question.

Who knows? Maybe not. It was just a suggestion.

For now, though, I’ll say (not entirely sure)

I’d probably lose it the same way as before.

If before was a bed with the man of my dreams

Or a couch, or table? You know what I mean.

After wedding, of course, before that, wouldn’t dare.

On our honeymoon night; a romantic affair.

Or maybe it’s morning or mid-afternoon.

Whenever, wherever he’ll cause me to swoon.

Whoever he is, however it goes,

In that very moment, I’ll recall this prose.

And smile, and think, as my arms nimbly cross,

“If something is given, it’s not truly lost.”

in my old school

we didn't have

winter break.

we had

christmas break.

time off to roll in

the sweet corruption of

capitalism.

i celebrated christmas,

but i had friends who didn't.

my jewish friend had to go to school

on her holiday.

my muslim friend had to

skip school

to participate in her holiday.

but christians

got their time off.

no matter what branch

of christianity you

are part of

you always get

christmas day off.

because it's not winter break.

it's not designed

to accommodate everyone.

it's just another priviledge

of the majority.

the day my friend was absent

in gym class

i realized just how privileged we are.

even if i'm not a christian,

i celebrate christian holidays,

because here,

we've been taught, however subtly

that christianity is right.

it is embedded in our very culture,

in our very world.

persecution is having to skip school because

your holiday is not

accommodated.

persecution is

listening to someone say

merry christmas

when you don't even

celebrate it.

persecution is

going on christmas break

even when

you don't get

a break of your own.

Two years ago, in the summer of 2019, an 11-year-old girl in my town hung herself. Two years ago, about two weeks after the incident, I got pretty close to following in that little girl's footsteps. The keyword being, close.

Her name was not Ana, but it's close as I am going to say because I refuse to say her name. When I learned she was gone, it was my mother that told me. She didn't sugarcoat anything or try to let the news out gently in any way shape or form, she just said: "Ana hung herself last night." and walked out. It has always bothered me how my mother didn't even try to sound upset, she told me a mentally destructive statement like that is if she was telling me I might need to grab a jacket before I left. I honestly wish I had the right to be mad at her for this, but I don't cause I reacted as if she just told me to grab a jacket.

All I said was "Okay.". I showed no emotion at all as if nothing even fazed me about it. How fucked up is that? A child is told coldly how one of their best friends just hung herself and they don't even react. As an 11-year-old girl, I guess maybe it was because I didn't believe it. How can you just believe that someone who was just there, is now gone?

I reacted like a sociopath for a full day, but then I couldn't stop crying for the next two weeks after that because I think I realized that I woke up again and Ana was still dead. It hit even harder when a few more nights after that I finally got around to what little miss Ana wrote in my yearbook. I still have never felt as guilty for anything I have done in my life as how I felt reading, "Hope you had a great last year! <3Ana", while getting ready to go into my second year of middle school.

I watched the entire small town I live in release balloons in the air wear obnoxious shades of purple and cry for someone they didn't know a single thing about. I'm not didn't do those things as well, nor am I going to walk around like I know some truth about a dead girl that no one else knows. If I did that I'd be a liar.

Anyways, it's cold as shit out here, and all these cemetery cats are staring at me like I'm chopped liver. I don't even know why I felt the need to talk about you to your grave like this in the first place. Oh, and before I leave, fuck you, Ana.

Fuck you for making me feel like I was supposed to be your saving grace or some shit like that when you know damn well I'm not cut out for that shit.

The Mundbyrdians knew this day would come; the Wahstrehite army circling around to the east for a surprise attack. But, the King of the West was the one caught off guard when he arrived that morning to a line of Wynsumheord’s proud defenders standing to thwart his ambush attempt.

The clashing of metal and war cries of both armies resounded all around Magnar as he strode steadfastly forward on his horse. In his heart, he knew this battle would be his last, for, The Shining Lord had shown him three visions; A great man of the house of Havardir will fall; be lost; not return home this day. He feared that great man was Syndri, hence the reason he instructed his brother to stay back in the village with Anselma and help the women, children, and weaker folk of Dryhtenhaven to hide away.

To his left, Magnar saw Phelan and Evander, skilled as always. The three knights they were currently up against stood no chance. To his right, his father was fighting alongside Ciril. Clearly, they both could hold their own. The brave warrior’s deep blue eyes continued to scan over the crowd. Where was King Sumphyr and his son? Were they too afraid to lead their own army into war? His hand tightened around the handle of his drawn sword when, suddenly, someone firmly gripped his shoulder. A few strands of golden hair shifted under the weight of Magnar’s helmet as he quickly turned his gaze to meet Jedrik.

“The visions were right,” the bigger man said enthusiastically, “Over half of the Wahstrehite Knights have already been slain. The Shining Lord has certainly delivered them into our hand.”

“Certainly so,” Magnar breathed in relief that the person who had just snuck upon him was a friend and not a foe, “For Wynsumheord, we shall finish them once and for all.”

“FOR WYNSUMHEORD!” Jedrik yelled, rearing his steed and raising his dagger into the air triumphantly before riding back off into the heat of the fight.

Magnar tried, but he could not bring himself to smile. His eyes only began searching the crowd even harder. He had to find the prince. If he would be defeated today, his mind was set on bringing Zekyn down with him.

“Son of Havardir...” he suddenly heard the Wahstrehite heir say in a patronizing voice, “Just the man I desired to see.”

“You wretched devil,” Magnar growled under his breath as the prince rode towards him with a crooked smile.

“Come down from thy steed and fight me like a man, coward,” Prince Zekyn slurred leaping down from his own mount and drawing his rapier.

“I am no coward,” Magnar said with a frown, heaving himself down and pointing his sword accusingly at the prince.

Zekyn laughed, throwing a sudden jab at Magnar.

“You are the coward, Zekyn,” Magnar grunted, meeting the prince’s attack with his own sword, “All this time sending lackeys out to claim my life when you were too afraid to come after me on your own.”

Zekyn’s lips formed a sinister grin as he repeatedly slashed his rapier at Magnar who barred them all with keen precision. Seeing this, the prince stood back.

“Pitiful weaklings...” he chuckled, “No matter how hard you peasants fight, this land and its people will be reclaimed by their rightful king,”

“We will never surrender to you fools!” Magnar said with anger, his hefty sword slicing the air above the royal’s head before clanging loudly against Zekyn’s rapier.

“You think you’re so brave, don’t you, Son of Havardir?” Zekyn asked rhetorically, thrusting Magnar’s sword away and drawing a second rapier from his own back, “You see yourself as the savior of Wynsumheord.”

“I am only a vessel of the true Savior,” Magnar said, retrieving his shield.

Prince Zephyr angrily rushed at the Mundbyrdian again, but the oncoming slashes were impeded once more with his shield.

The sound of metal clanking grew louder and louder as the two foes continued to duel, neither of them finding an opening on their opponent, and both growing more and more furious by the moment. When one jousted, the other blocked. When one slashed, the other fell back. Prince Zephyr knelt to jab at Magnar’s legs, but the warrior jumped and swung at the prince’s head. A quick jerk of the neck on instinct saved the latter from what would have been a nasty gash. Flipping forward, he stood to his feet.

"Enough!" he screamed, holding his rapiers crossed into an X, striding towards Magnar "This ends now. YOU. End now."

The latter held his shield up to buffer, but the prince gave a swift kick to his elbow causing his arm to falter and drop it. Magnar's right hand brought his sword up just in time to hinder the prince's blades from closing in on his neck. The tension built between both forces. If one of them gave way only a little, the other would most likely be sliced clean through.

“You think you can protect Wynsumheord?” the prince asked smugly, eyes watching for the anger to arise in Magnar, “You couldn’t even save your own wife who was screaming out for you as she writhed beneath me.”

This infuriating comment launched Magnar into a rage. Using all of his strength, he finally pushed Zekyn’s rapiers away from his neck. With a loud roar, he barreled towards his opponent, swinging madly, but the prince was spry enough to avoid the attacks. Blinded by his own fury, Magnar stumbled forward, missing the heir completely. Before he realized, Zekyn’s knee had made contact with his spine and he was face down on the ground. Scrambling to turn, he sat up and pulled his sword up just in time to meet what surely would have been a fatal strike. Zekyn only laughed and kicked the warrior's arm with his armored boot sending the sword flying feet away.

"Son of Havardir, today marks your end," he grinned, sheathing one of his rapiers and pointing the other right between Magnar's eyes, "Any last words before you die?"

The angry Mundbyrdian took a deep breath. He knew that the prince was right. There was nothing he could do know. Zekyn began rearing back his sword, so Magnar settled upon something profound to say and opened his mouth.

Suddenly, a galloping horse rushed up behind Magnar. The prince gave a confused expression before being smacked clean across the face and knocked off his feet. Magnar, also confused, looked to see Syndri who had swept past, delivering a blow to Zekyn with his RodStaff. The lad smiled and circled back, lending a hand down to help his brother up onto his steed and whisking them away from the downed prince.

At a safe distance, Syndri stopped the horse and both the men lept off.

"Thanks for the assist," Magnar breathed, half happy to see his brother and half worried at once, "But, I ordered you to remain in the village."

"I know, I know," Syndri sang, "If something happens to Anselma, you'll kill me, surely."

Magnar smiled weakly, but his heart broke a little. The fear of Syndri dying was the reason he told his brother to stay back. Eyeing the battle going on around them, Magnar picked up the sword and shield of a fallen knight.

"You must go back, brother," he said.

"Back?" Syndri shook his head, "I never thought I'd see this day, but I just saved your life, didn't I? It's most often the other way around."

"Yes, but I thank you for it," Magnar laughed, "I knew you had it in you, and finally that confidence shows."

"You're right," Syndri smiled, "so it's here to stay, and I'm here to stay. By your side 'til the end."

Magnar realized that there was nothing he could say to get his brother to go back now. This was fate, foretold by The Shining Lord.

"Brother," Magnar said, putting a hand on the lad's shoulder, "If something happens to me, promise to take care of father and Anselma... she is with child, so the child as well... Promise to stay strong for me and carry on no matter what happens, alright?"

Syndri's olive eyes met his brother's navy blues and he nodded solemnly.

"Of course I will, brother," he said, covering the hand with his own, "And, if something happens to me, I trust you will do the same."

Magnar couldn't even bring himself to agree. He knew that he would not withstand Syndri's death well at all.

"For Wynsumheord?" Syndri held up his staff into the air.

"For Wynsumheord," Magnar said, joining his sword to his brother's weapon before the two returned to help their fellow Mundbyrdians.