Sometimes

I go to write

and there’s a fire

in my brain

i can write

and burn to death

or extinguish the fire

and mourn the unwritten

By: Amaya Simpson

I woke up to the sound of a branch tapping my window. Tap. Tap. Tap. I try putting a

pillow over my head, but I can't go back to sleep. I sit up and look at my phone. ~3:33~March 3rd~I hear a door creaking in the distance. I follow the sound, and it was the basement door. Something in me tells me to go down. My heart? Racing. I'm terrified of the basement. I hear my name being called. It sounds close. -Stacy!! Stacy!! Stacy!!- I walk closer and something emerges from the shadows… AHHHHH!!!! NOOOOOO!!!!! STOPPPP!!!

(a ballade supreme, in *catalectic tertiary paeonic tetrameter)

Audio Recording: https://soundcloud.com/dusty-grein/hotel

The old lawyer closed his case, and said “That’s all there is, I guess.”

“Did my uncle really die there?” He looked up and gave a sigh,

“In the lobby’s where they found him. It was probably the stress,

of the many renovations he was planning when he died.”

That was how it came to pass that it was now my turn to try

and fix up the old stone building, like it was when it was new.

So I moved to New Orleans. This city's beautiful, that's true,

but quite soon I learned more truth, about the evil that befell

many guests who chose to stay there, and the tales told by the crew

of the ghosts and apparitions at

Hôtel Le Fontanelle.

When I moved into the place, I found that it was quite a mess.

It confused me and I couldn’t understand the reasons why;

till I woke up one dark midnight, to the gentlest caress

and the faintest quiet echo, sounding like a baby’s cry.

I sat up and found my blood was running cold, my mouth was dry,

while my fists were clenched quite firmly and my lips were turning blue.

Through the pounding of my heartbeat, all that I could think to do

was to calm my labored breathing, which I did… until a bell

began ringing somewhere near, and then I found that I was glued

to my bed, here in my room within

Hôtel Le Fontanelle.

After that I knew the time had come to find a priest to bless

every room and every hall, to help those earth-bound spirits fly

off to Heaven, or to Hell, I really couldn’t care much less.

It was my place now, and I was not afraid to dig and pry

into all the secret stories there, exposing every lie.

I discovered there’d been voodoo rituals, which blasted through

the thin veil between the realms. Into this hole, the spirits flew.

The old ju-ju woman in the swamp refused to cast a spell

which would mend the rip. Instead she laughed and said that I would rue

the day I stepped o’er the threshold of

Hôtel Le Fontanelle.

The true horror of the situation only bloomed and grew

after my attempt to free them, for I really had no clue,

that this failed attempt soon meant my body too, would start to smell,

from the bed where it lay rotting. See, the cost of sin comes due,

and it must be paid with interest, to

Hôtel Le Fontanelle.

-----------------------—

© 2023 - dustygrein

* This little used poetic meter means each line is is built of four 4-syllable feet, with the stress on syllable #3. It is catalectic (latin: no tail) because the final syllable is omitted from each line, giving it a syllable stress rhythm of:

tap, tap, THUMP, tap, tap, tap, THUMP, tap, tap, tap, THUMP, tap, tap, tap, THUMP.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

We are proud to announce our new method for picking our poison, so check the YouTube video beneath the link for our Challenge of the Week CCXXVI right after this message. In today's video, we congratulate last week's winner, who wrote a hell of a piece to take her fella out to lunch, should she decide to do so.

-Hope your long weekend means a short hangover.

https://theprose.com/challenge/14041

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tQggQwrIsPQ

And.

As Always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

She never operated

Under parasols

And tacky lingerie

She refused

To be showered

With perfume

And promises

She needed

Your blood

To be clean

And willing

To receive

She showed you

How to break

And you did

David Burdett

4/29/21

Mother spider,

she wanes to wrap her children -

it's a sordid affair,

and eight faucets fault at once,

and it must be done.

No burial is more loving

than one tucked away

into dustbins of discards.

No grave is lonelier

than one left unmade:

a lazy morning's heartbreak

that won't roll out of bed.

She sows pristine dresses

for her paper-doll children.

Tomorrow they will finally

fray, and she'll be left with

split milk's acrid taste.

Outside it's February, and

the closet's own brittle bones

have weathered.

He loosened the straps that held his peg to what was left of his right leg and examined the stars to get his bearings. Many had died tonight, he was determined not to be another. His ship and his crew had sailed south for at least two months before the wind died. That was yesterday, now he was alone. Alone without a crew to hinder his progress, and as the wind finally caught the sail of his long boat, hopefully steering it towards the shore, he looked back, towards the horizon, at his burning ship. The ship he had set aflame before stealing away with the only long boat. At least, his crew wasn’t freezing anymore.

Happy to have the quiet, and knowing it wouldn’t last, he tried to enjoy it. Then, on que, and before he finished the thought…

“That was as rude as it was calculated.” She said. The voice came from the almost apathetic woman who appeared suddenly at the front of the boat. She was gazing back at the fire. The flames illuminated her pale skin.

“Perhaps, they’re better off. What if there’s only one? You’re free of them, at least.” She sighed.

“...but not free of you, and how lucky we both are, for this harlot’s curse.” He said, trying to evade her, scanning the boat, looking for anything to occupy his mind. She went away when he was busy, if the itching stopped, but a chill ran through the wind, and he was resigned only to tighten the fur lining of his coat. She’ll have to haunt my dreams too, he thought.

…It was the thud of the boat hitting land that woke him. The moon, as the sun never came here, was bright, almost happy to see him, but it was freezing. On first appearance, he hadn’t found land at all. He knew enough to realize he had no clue. He was either the first man here or the only man still living. People, of course, had warned him when he asked about the lamp from the south. They warned he would never find the cave. Most told of monsters that roamed the ice islands, others said he would fall off the side of the earth, but everyone recited a cautionary tale, full of peril and of death. He believed no one. He was calculated, with no liking for the prison of superstition, but always, of an open mind. It’s true. For his time and profession, the Captain was a learned man, but mostly just a greedy one. After all, what else would compel a man to sail to the map’s edge and then further? He would tell you, he likened himself as more than just a harbinger of pillage and destruction; he was a lion, his greed the lioness, their conquests were merely sustenance. Though, when he drinks, he’s also quite dramatic.

“You’re so jaded.” She said. He wasn’t fully awake yet, but she was easy to ignore in the mornings.

“You’re not even satisfied we found land.” She added and jumped out onto the ice.

“I’ll be satisfied when we find the lamp.” He said, squinting, trying to find a landmark. His eyes came into focus and he examined the ice terrain before him. It looked sturdy enough to support his weight, and so, he lifted his peg over the side of the boat and placed it firmly on the ice. The ice cracked slightly, and he noticed a puddle gathering, it submerged a portion of his peg, but the floor was holding. With hazard, he attempted the step to land and was successful. He took a few slow steps, and noticed his peg was sticking to the ground, slightly freezing with every step. It was helping to keep his footing. Confidently, the captain pushed forward, walking south. He smiled, happy to be “alone” at least.

“I wouldn’t get too excited. It’s obviously far.” She warned.

“Your peg, it’s frozen all ready.” She added.

“Oh, grow a spine, grow anything.” He said, mumbling, because he knew all ready. It was apparent with each step; the peg was freezing harder to the ice. Each time, it was harder to pull up, to keep his balance and then to take that next step. His last was quickly approaching, the peg would freeze solid to the ground soon.

“Grow a leg.” She said. He could only laugh, and they walked awhile together, towards what we can only assume will be his death. Fittingly, after some time, a blizzard began, and the wind blew the snow around. He could hardly see the faint outline, the shadow of an entrance. It had to be the cave, he thought, and he stopped to focus through the snow. It just had to be.

He was standing in front of the entrance, composing himself, and somewhat relieved, when he realized the peg was frozen stiff. He had stood still for too long. And so, with little thought, the Captain loosened the straps that held his peg to what was left of his right leg. He wouldn’t need it, that is, if he found the lamp.

“It will make a fitting tombstone, I think.” She said, as he removed the straps and made to balance one legged on the ice, but the blizzard swept and instantly blew him off his footing. He fell, flat foot and face down. Stubbornly, he tightened the fur lining of his coat and proceeded towards the entrance, resigned to “walk” using his left knee. He was fortunate there were few steps left in his journey.

The cave was dark, hollow, and hardly warmer. He was exhausted, at least the cave floor collapsed before he did. He only heard the rush, then landed safely on his end, he opened his eyes, finally to realize, he was staring at the lamp. It was resting atop the rubble, waiting. He jerked towards it, crawling like a madman. With the last of his strength he reached to grab it and pulled it close to his breast. He was caressing its polished edges, when suddenly, the cave shook, and a rattling ran throughout. He dropped the lamp and crawled backwards towards the wall as he watched it rising, suspended in the air. The sound grew unbearable, he was covering his ears in pain, when suddenly, the sound stopped, and a genie appeared.

“Damn, it’s cold.” The genie said, annoyed. Yet, the genie immediately regretted his curtness and tried to cover.

“I’m sorry. Hello, I see you found me, but please be brief. What’s your name and only one of you?” He said, almost apologetically.

“Yes, I’m the Captain, and I’m alone.”

“Never say that.” She said, pretending to pout and sitting at his foot.

“Indeed, yes, alone. Interesting, one never knows, but wait, oh, I do see another.” The genie said.

“You see her too?” He asked, almost relieved.

“If you wish.” The genie laughed and continued.

“I see her, through you…I wonder if that makes you a man at all?” The genie was forgetting his feigned kindness.

“I like him, a lot.” She said.

“I don’t wonder anymore.” The Captain said, defending his wit before his manhood.

“Yes, you just wander. What a difference a vowel makes in a verb. Please, hurry.” The genie said.

“Do I have a wish?” He asked.

“Somewhat, what’s your problem?” The genie insisted.

“I just want a leg.”

“How simple, yes. I can do that, of course…well…not to get too specific. A couple millennia back, I made a vow to myself, after an unfortunate turn of events, I mean after certain life lessons, I decided to stop being a wish giver, and instead; a problem solver. So please, if you could, state your problem.” The genie insisted again.

“I take it back. I don’t like him anymore.” She said, turning despondently to examine a rock.

“What should I say is my problem?” He asked the genie, annoyed now too. The genie deliberated hurriedly and tried to answer.

“Something like, ‘Oh genie, please help me, I cannot walk.’ And I can, as I’ve said, solve the problem.” The genie replied.

“Wouldn’t you just give me gills and fins then? So, I could swim. You’re a trickster, it’s why you’re here. I’ve read the stories.” He argued, determined not to be swindled by the patronizing “problem solver” who lived for all eternity in a lamp at the bottom of an arctic cave. Understandably, the genie was offended and quickly started ranting.

“Why does everyone think that? As if we’re that literal, like we’re just shouting across lamps about another human we fooled. It’s the stereotypes that plague…”

“Oh genie, I cannot walk” The Captain interrupted, worried he’d freeze before ever making his wish.

“Thank you, I’m happy to solve your problem.” The genie said, before disappearing with a crack. The cave groaned as before, and he heard the genie’s voice echo from above.

“Of life and limb.

A peg forgiven.

And though the weight...

Let our Captain, walk to heaven”

She was the last thing he saw before losing consciousness. She was waving goodbye. In what felt like an instant, he came to, staring at his new right leg and sitting on the ice in the moonlight. He moved his right toes, then, hesitantly, he looked around. The boat was steps way, and she was nowhere to be seen. He smiled.

“That was surprisingly cryptic.” He said, to no one now, happy to be alone and anxious to walk. With little effort, he stood up, as if he’d never missed a step, and for the first time in our story, the Captain walked with both legs. Unfortunately, and, perhaps it’s because he felt lighter, but he failed to consider the additional weight of his new leg on the ice. If doing so, he would’ve taken more caution when stepping towards the boat. He was stepping towards the ice that had cracked earlier, towards shaky ground. And, as he took his last step, lifting his left leg up into the boat, at least, he never heard the crack. He only heard the rush and then the quiet. I imagine, he’s still smiling.

Imaginary Journey

Writing Challenge: Imagine yourself as the protagonist of an extraordinary journey. You are transported to a fictional world where anything is possible. Your task is to write a short story or narrative poem describing your adventure. Explore the sights, sounds, and emotions of this unknown realm. Let your creativity go to it’s limits as you encounter fantastical creatures, navigate uncharted territories, and face unexpected challenges. Share the triumphs, the trials, and the lessons learned along the way. Immerse the reader in the magic of your journey and ignite their imagination. The word limit for this challenge is 500 words. Let’s GO! Winner Gets $20.00 Via PayPal Or CashApp

Ladies and gentlemen,

Today, we gather here to celebrate the remarkable achievement of our writing contest's challenge winner. It is with great pleasure and admiration that I stand before you to congratulate

BJLeCrae, the brilliant mind behind the prose Fizzy and Mixx that earned them this well-deserved 20 bucks.

In conclusion, let us raise our glasses to Fizzy and Mixx, the charming characters of this writing contest. Your words have breathed life into characters, worlds, and emotions that will forever remain etched in the space time continuum of Prose.

Congratulations, your success is truly well-deserved, and I eagerly anticipate the literary wonders that you unveil in the future.

Cheers!

@BJLeCrae

Fizzy and Mixx

by BJLeCrae

"Dad's home. What are we going to tell him?"

"We're not going to tell him anything, Fizz."

"He's going to notice the fucking dog is missing, Mixx. He's not an idiot."

"Yes, he is. Mom only married him for his hair and biceps..."

"And gluts."

"Yeah, don't remind me. We'll tell him we haven't seen Bailey and just play dumb."

"That's easy for you; you've only got a 167 IQ. I'm going to have to put on the performance of a lifetime."

"Four points, Fizz. Four tiny fucking IQ points, and I was hopped up on Paracetamol..."

"Hey girls, what's up?"

"Hi Daddy!"

"Hey Fizz! You guys still working on the project?"

"Yeah, Mixxy's just working out some bugs."

"Bugs? It's almost noon. I would have thought you two would be celebrating unlocking the mysteries of the space-time continuum by now."

"It's the... time-space continuum, Father."

"Yeah... that's what they call it in this universe. So, what is this thing, Mixx?"

"Right now, I don't know what it is."

"Well, what does it do?"

"Nothing."

"That's not true. It does something, we're just not sure what."

"Well, what's is supposed to do?"

"It supposed to facilitate the diffusion of molecules across a selectively permeable membrane between areas of higher to lower concentration, Father."

"Ohhh... so it's a ray gun!"

"Yes, it's a ray gun."

"Nice. Where's Bailey?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen him. Have you seen him, Fizz?"

"Well, I certainly don't see him now."

"Maybe he's in the back yard."

"Maybe... it's weird, he always greets me at the door. I figured he must be up here with you guys helping with your work on your ray gun thing..."

"Don't touch that!"

"Daddy no!"

"What's happening?!"

"Mixx! Fizz! Hold onto me!"

"Daddy!"

"I've got you!"

"Look... "

"What? What the hell? What's wrong with my voice? Are you hearing this?"

"You sound like a chipmunk... hahahaha! I sound like a chipmunk!"

"Why don't I sound... ooookay, I sound like a chipmunk, too. What the heck is going on, Mixxy? What kind of molecular diffusion... selectably permable..."

"Selectively permeable... it doesn't matter! That's not what it was. You wouldn't understand it anyway."

"Sure I would. Molecular diffusion... and selectively permeable... membranes and the... the other..."

"That's osmosis! I just gave you the definition of osmosis so you'd leave us alone to work on accelerator!"

"Accelerator?! What does it accelerate? Where the hell are we, Mixx?"

"I don't know! Ask Fizz! She's the smart one!"

"Only by four points! I don't know where we are! Everything's all fuzzy and blurry and..."

"Okay, let's all just calm down."

"Fizz! Fizz! Sit! Fizz! Mixx!"

"Who the heck is that?"

"It came from over there. Look, some... thing's coming."

"Sit! Fizz! Mixx!"

"Holy mother of crap! It's Bailey!"

"Bailey! You're talking!"

"Bailey talking. Good boy."

"Holy crap, Mixx. You've transported us into a parallel universe where dogs can talk!"

"What do we do now, Mixx?"

"I don't friggin' know! There's a 500-word limit!"

Are we not so alike, you and I?

A conversation, it takes you,

never mind the particulars,

man, mutt, wall.

Precious,

you can point to it,

something comes to mind?

Never mind, but before that.

Where is it?

My private hell,

you know it well,

Shameful pain, forever, hopelessly unredeemed.