Happy New Year!

A couple quick updates to start off 2019.

Challenge of the Month

We're working our way through the entries for November and December's Challenge of the Month. Due to the holiday, giving every entry a fair read and determining a winner is taking a bit longer than anticipated. Keep an eye out for an winner announcement in the next couple of days, as well as January's prompt.

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We wish you all a fantastic 2019. Great things ahead.

Prose.

Is it possible

to miss

someone I will

never know

is there such a thing

as ghost love

like a limb

torn from my body

phantom

I feel the blank space

where you are

supposed to be.

I will be dead come morning. This I know well.

Do not cry, for I have grown used to the idea. I have slowly withered and changed and watched my friends do the same, falling and slipping away one by one. Tonight, it will be my turn. I can feel it in the night air. Death’s beckoning call.

Come, says he, the time is now right for you. Take your peace.

Peace. What a wonderful melody it makes upon the wind. Can you hear it? Tinkling just around the bend, over a hill perhaps, and carried to the four corners of the earth upon ever-changing currents. Here and there, it bends and swoops, promising its kiss to one while growing distracted by another. But it will not miss me this time. Oh no. Death has promised me that. And Death never breaks his promises.

Such an unyielding gust, that wind, rattling through the branches. Sent from the enemy, I shouldn’t wonder. And what a bitter enemy, too. I’ve heard whispers of his brutality, of the annihilations of generations past. And yet…a visitor weaved through in the spring; like a needle, it pierced us with tales of a more resilient abode with scores of generations still clinging to life.

It seems so long ago now…though not so long until morning. Will I see the first rays draw back the crisp night air and lighten the clouds as though my world has not changed forever? Or shall Death come while the owl still cries and the stars dance in formation to herald yet another season?

Ah, there! I feel it. Like a lightheaded dream. A warmer breeze rattles me until I feel myself slipping. It embraces me tightly until I break and feel my crumpled shell float away. For a moment, I hang suspended, hand-in-hand with Death and Peace, as we watch my old form ride the wind down to my comrades. Once young and green, it is now bright yellow and crisp. No less beautiful, I consider vainly.

We begin to drift up, greeted by vistas of red and orange and yellow, awash in the light of the full harvest moon. Yes. There is beauty in the ending of something, as surely as in its beginning; even in the ending of autumn, when all leaves must fall. And oh! the stories I could divulge…

Autumn’s on the hillside,

With Calvary in tow,

While Summer sets his soldiers,

And showers the ground with bows.

She’s come here for the castle,

As the prophecy foretold,

Her leaves colored for battle,

She must reach it by the snow.

With a clever chill,

She sees there is a change,

As she blocks Summer’s golden sun,

And adds ice cubes to the rain.

She arrived this time last year,

And it is now she must return,

Autumn’s set to bring destruction,

Her oranges and yellows burn.

Autumn calls a November advance,

Summer strains to hold his walls,

For this is their last chance,

Before Winter whitewashes all.

Should we cling to Summer,

The warmth in which he ruled,

Or charge the gate with Autumn,

Her touch so crisp and cool?

The prophecy itself,

Has been called down by the gods,

This battle will be bloody,

For each season’s heart is strong.

When the last leaf fell, the world hushed. It was a smattering of silence, each barren tree telling the next one to quiet down, the wind itself holding its breath. The sunlight waned in, as if it couldn’t bear to witness the macabre.

The leaf fluttered in the air, and the tree seemed to sway with it, as if it were coercing it to stay. One pull, then another. And it broke free, floating gently to the ground in a strange, oscillating motion. When it touched the floor of crackled, fire-bred leaves, a sigh escaped the Earth.

Natalie Shutterman blinked. Once, twice. The leaf was gone, fading into the backdrop. Her hand rested on the railing, head bent almost imperceptibly to the side, hair falling in soft waves, cradling her in a golden halo. Her hazel eyes were glazed, as if in a drowsy sleep. She was beautiful, stunning even, in a way that caught your eye only the second time.

Now, she appeared frozen, a breathtaking portrait, an elaborate sculpture. Something was wrong. Her movements were too stiff, her eyes too glazed. Her knuckles were white on the sill, hand clutched almost desperately to the railing. If you tilted the lens slightly to the left, you’d see the edge of the gunbarrel pressed to the back of her head.

At 5:06 a.m. the streets were empty, and the few people who jogged by, feet pounding on the pavement, arms pumping back and forth, were caught up in their own world. At 5:07 precisely, a muffled gunshot cracked into the air. Her hands left the sill, fingers reaching out, mouth open, eyes wide. Her body dropped to the ground with a soft thud, head bouncing off the tiles. Two pairs of hands: one callused and rough, the other slim and undoubtedly female, dragged the body away.

Natalie Shusterman: female, age 28, model/actress, IQ 82, number 0000000001 was down.

we wake in a dark room

i tell you how the thought

of moving shatters my bones

you laugh with an ease

i envy and cherish and hate

get up it’s just another day

that’s the problem

i’m alone i know that i’m not crazy

i only talk to myself sometimes

when there’s no other way

of getting my body out

of a bed or a hole

i dug all on my own

it’s silent so i imagine

everyone has left

it’s a dream to have

a home filled without

the help of strangers

coffee

i need coffee

but first

i need to stand

my phone is saying it’s time to rise

the sun is creeping and helps nothing

mornings are growing colder every day

i trip on the idea there’s anything

i can do to stop it

i stumble over everything else

just to switch on the light

to catch a glimpse of skin

in the mirror paling peeling

off like i don’t need it anymore

like i can stay warm if i just keep moving

i’m going to quit

it’s just my job

it’s just what i do

can’t afford a cab

still i quit

a phone call before anyone gets in

i’m not able to come in today

or tomorrow i’m afraid

i gave it a shot

and i have no intention

of ever seeing you again

the light is still on

but maybe if i close my eyes

for long enough i’ll fall back asleep

nothing

wide awake

anxiously awaiting

reactions

20 minutes later

missed call mom

she can’t possibly

know already

no response

i’m gone

shining and shaking because

i’m finally dressing layering

turning the screen black

burying it beneath keys

pens bread what’ll keep me

going today and tomorrow surely

there will be one here or there my eyes

open no matter how many times i ask them

to say sealed as my lips

will i ever want to tune back in

no

i’ll only want to keep walking

once i start

as long as i’m warm enough

on course

to be going nowhere exactly

what i love

You want a surprise ending?

Like the kind where I survive this torture?

Or like the kind where I escape?

You want a surprise ending

But let me tell you something.

This is life.

Yes, people have had major comebacks,

But maybe I'm not one of those people.

You're expecting a miracle

But I'm no miracle worker.

I'm just a kid that's tired of falling

Off the swingsets.

I'm just a teen that's tired of being

The last to be picked.

I'm just an adult that's tired of trying,

But failing every day.

So there's not going to be a surprise ending.

Because this is life,

And there's no happily ever after here.

-EJB