Note: I will be returning to posting shortly. I am not going to delete this post as I want all members to have the opportunity to read this if they wish and to feel free to discuss any concerns that might arise in the future with me or the Prose administration directly.

     I thank all of you for your incredible support and interest, not just in my own writing, but in the writing of all Prosers in the community. It remains a joy to share in the journey that is writing with all of you, and I look forward to reading more and more of your work.

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It is with great sadness that I am informing all of you dear Prosers that I will not be writing anything more on this site in the foreseeable future.

     I read through the recent conversations about various aspects of the administration of Prose and the results of the Simon and Schuster challenge, and I have been thinking about the comments made by various Prosers, as well as the earlier posts about said challenge that have long since been deleted from the site. I have also seen a number of comments on various posts while I was reading new works recently that I found very concerning. Many things were said that, to me, are indicative of a very serious change in the atmosphere in this community that I cannot support, even indirectly, and that also makes me very concerned for my fellow Prosers and the future of the community.

     I usually refrain from involving myself in conflicts among community members and, up to this point, I have not participated in any of the discussions that have taken place concerning the running of the site and the challenges. I feel that everyone is entitled to their own opinion and, if any individual feels it is appropriate to voice their opinion in public, then that is also their choice. What has led me to say my own piece about these issues now is that Prose no longer feels like the welcoming, open, inclusive community that it was when I joined a little over a year ago. Instead, it feels increasingly hostile and petty with some members attempting to construct a social hierarchy where the thoughts and opinions of certain writers are taken as more important and worthy of note than those of others.

     The Simon and Schuster challenge is a prime example of these changes within the community. I was very disturbed to read some of the comments made upon the announcement of the winners. Some Prosers congratulated some of the winners while implying or openly stating that the others were less worthy, or not worthy at all, of winning. There were also comments made suggesting that certain Prosers were less entitled to win because they are not as active on the site as others, are new members, or because they did not receive as many “likes” as others. These statements are mean-spirited, unnecessary, and suggest that time spent on Prose and indications of popularity within the community are valid reasons for winning a contest. They also imply that members who do not post regularly, who joined the site recently, or who do not interact with a chosen circle of Prosers are not real members of the community. Regardless of whether or not anyone thought there were irregularities with the contest judging or rules, it was not fair to denigrate the challenge winners because the contest did not turn out the way certain individuals wanted. The winners had nothing to do with the judging and for some Prosers to diminish their work and achievement because of perceived slights or issues with the judging is an attitude that does not support the creative, community-minded spirit that is supposed to be part of the purpose of the site. Any issues with the contest could have been directed at Prose, Simon and Schuster, and the judges without demeaning the winners, regardless of whether or not any members of the Prose community would have chosen those entries as the winners or how much they felt their own work should have been chosen.

     The fact that so many people were openly bitter about the contest results is, in and of itself, a sign of growing jealousy, hostility, and a general lack of sensitivity within the community. Any contest in a creative field will necessarily be judged subjectively and according to the tastes and perceptions of the judge or judges. I personally have extensive experience participating in competitions in both writing and music performance, and I can say from my own experience that the Simon and Schuster contest was not unusual. Entering competitions in the creative arts is a choice, and anyone who chooses to enter such a competition must accept the rules and procedures of the contest, and any subsequent rulings. I have won some competitions in my life and lost others, and some certainly appeared to be more “fair” than others, but complaining openly about the results of a contest after winners were announced is something I have never done. Interestingly, my fellow musicians and writer friends have also never openly questioned the results of a contest, which leads me to the realization that this is a change, and a negative one at that, in the attitudes of those who now consider themselves to be professionals or semi-professionals in creative fields.

     None of this is to say that anyone is not entitled to their feelings. It is perfectly natural to feel upset, disappointed, or even angry when the results of a competition do not go one’s way, and it is absolutely the right of every individual to feel this way. But it is completely unnecessary to make nasty, hostile, or demeaning comments in a public forum. What is ironic about the discussions that took place upon the conclusion of the Simon and Schuster challenge is that many of those who were the angriest and the most hostile toward the winners are the same ones who openly defended the contest, Prose, and the judgment of the administrators when some of the same questions as to the legitimacy of the contest arose prior to its closing. The impression this gives is that those people assumed they would win, or that they were hoping that praising and defending Prose and the administrators might be a way to curry favor with the judges. Similarly, many of those people attacked other Prosers who had the courage to ask questions about the contest rules and judging while it was still open. This amounts to bullying and gives a very negative impression of the community, one that suggests that conformity is valued above free expression and that the opinions of all members are not equally valid. To me, this goes against the ethics that Prose and its members profess to stand for, and such behavior is not representative of the kind of attitudes that are appropriate for the site.

     Another issue that concerns me greatly is the implication that arose in some of the conversations of an “inner circle” of writers in the Prose community who should, in various ways, be deferred to in matters of site administration and community activities. This defeats the purpose of a creative writing forum. If Prose becomes a site where certain members are viewed as elite in some way simply because they are the most aggressive or vocal, or because they post more than other members, it will very quickly become a place where individuals are excluded simply because they are unable or unwilling to follow the ideas of those chosen few who position themselves as de facto leaders within the community. There is already some indication that this is happening. Mass tagging on posts is an exclusionary practice that gives the impression that the opinions of certain Prosers are more valid than others. It also implies that if Prosers do not leave a public indication that they have read a given work, either through a “like” or by leaving a comment, then they will not be included among the Prose inner circle. Even in the discussions of the Simon and Schuster results, Prosers were tagging each other, which adds to the impression that only certain members had a right to raise concerns about the issues being discussed and that some members are inherently more qualified to comment on those issues than others.

     A related issue that concerns me greatly is the one of feedback. There has been a lot of discussion of ways to give and receive feedback, what level of feedback is appropriate, and the importance of getting feedback. This is a very important issue and, in my opinion, there is only one answer. It is not appropriate to give feedback. The one exception is when one individual expressly asks another for feedback on a specific post. Even then, it should only be given by the person who was asked and only on the post in question. The reason for this is very simple. Prose is an online community and there is no way to be certain who anyone is talking to at any given time. It is presumptuous, egotistical, and potentially offensive to give unsolicited feedback as it assumes an unequal relationship where the person giving the comments is inherently qualified to make professional judgments about the person to whom the comments are directed. Regardless of what professional qualifications or experience are possessed by any individual on the site, it is inappropriate to make such assumptions and to suggest that everyone should automatically be receptive to feedback. These assumptions additionally further the exclusionary atmosphere that is developing and could make some members feel reluctant to post freely out of fear or embarrassment. Further, Prose is a site for creative writing. Creative writing can only be judged subjectively and everyone should have the right to write what they please, in the way they please, and accept that some readers will enjoy their writing and continue to read their work and others will not be interested and move on to a different writer. In other words, Prosers should simply express themselves creatively and, in turn, find readers who enjoy their personal style and ideas and who will follow them in order to read more, without fear of public shame and with no risk that they will be excluded for failing to go along with the majority.

     When I joined Prose, I was welcomed warmly by the community. I felt free to share my writing and to read the writing of other members. Sometimes I “liked” posts, sometimes I left comments, and sometimes others did the same for me. I felt like members were sharing their work and the work of others, and that there was a sense of camaraderie among Prosers, who were also sharing in the experience of writing. Now, I see cliques forming who tag each other on their posts and the posts of others, and who start conversations and invite each other to join in, while ignoring or dismissing the comments of those outside of their groups. I see harsh, rude comments that range from passive aggressive to openly hostile posted for no reason on some posts. And I see increasing bitterness and ill will toward members who show any kind of initiative or achievement that is seen as going against the self-appointed leaders of the Prose community, as well as an increasing lack of acceptance of the work and ideas of new members.

     For these reasons, I will not be posting any more of my writing on the site as I do not wish to participate in a forum where attitudes of hostility, divisiveness, and elitism are apparent, nor do I feel comfortable in an environment where members are treated unfairly for non-conformity or where problems with the administration are taken out on fellow members. I will not be leaving Prose, however, as I genuinely believe in the community and in the potential for the site to return to the warm, supportive forum for reading and writing that it was when I joined. If such a time comes when the community gets past the petty rivalries and nasty, ungracious behaviors that do not befit professionals in any field, I will gladly return to posting. Until then, I will be around, so feel free to contact me if you wish. Please know also that I have a challenge with prizes that is still open and I will absolutely be judging the entries and awarding those prizes upon its conclusion.

     Thank you all for reading this and to those of you who have been, and still are, wonderful and genuine supporters of the writers on this site, I thank you as well.

     Your friend,

     Onyx City

goodbye dinah,

goodbye

i'm going to a place where

you can't follow,

falling in reverse down this

madness hollow

and these roots look a lot

like the veins in my skin

one more shot in the arm

makes my world start to spin

hello dinah,

hello?

i'm lost in a meadow of

poisonous thorns,

mocked by the petals in

flowery scorn

and their pollen is stale

like the lines i inhale, i'm

a bump shrunk too small

as my flesh starts to pale, it's

cold dinah,

cold

i'm chasing a cat with a

grisly grin,

we're all mad, he says,

we're all made of sin

and the pills on my tongue

disappear with his guise

but the mome raths outgrabe

cut me back down to size, i'm

alone dinah,

alone

with the hatter and hare

and their

spirituous brew,

heed the door mouse’ beware

and this tea tastes a lot

like the sorrow i feel

one more pot down the hatch

turns my whole world surreal, i'm

trapped dinah,

trapped

in the red queen's rose court

with her

merciless games,

calling torture a sport

and the drugs numb my soul

but i'd rather be dead

if i don't play her way then

it's off with my head, so

goodbye dinah,

goodbye

i'm going to a place where

you can't follow,

falling in reverse down this

madness hollow

the light leaves my eyes

with my lung's last expand, and

we're all mad here

in this dark wonderland.

-

                                                                                                                             z. ikeda

                                                                                                                                '17

Testing the waters,

        I’m married to a rabbit

        but I’m a human cartoon,

        he’s the one who should

        breed like a rabbit soon.

I was drawn to be

        voluptuous and sexy

        by Disney cartoonists

        and they purposely forgot

        to draw on my undies.

But, alas, my Roger

        uses Viagra -

       Roger can’t get it up

       and all my curves

       are going to waste.

blowing in the wind

       with nary a taste

       and I am horny

       and unfulfilled.

In other words,

       I swipe at dry crumbs

       He’s unable to do

       what rabbits should do.

I flail and curse at

       my open heart

       and open legs

       as I turn bright red

       on center stage.

Men in audience

       stare back at me.

       I jump into bed

       with another stud,

       part-owner of town

       where I reside.

He’s not that hot,

        but he will do

        until I find

        a replacement man.

I smooth my hands

        over my svelte body

        and notice a bump

        crowding my tummy.

Dr. Doolittle proclaims,

        "Congratulations, Jessica,

        you’re having a litter,”

        as I lie spread eagled

        in a paper gown.

How can I have a litter?

         I’m not a bunny

         and it’s not my honey’s.

I slink back home

        to confess to Roger

        but he has been

        arrested for killing

        my paramour.

I cry to myself,

        it’s all my fault

        he didn’t want

        to do such a

        drastic thing.

But I was wrong

        Roger didn’t do it!

        Judge Sicko,

        deranged psychopath,

        had vowed

        to destroy Roger.

Judge’s goggle eyes

        had focused on me,

        for his turn

        at a tryst.

I meet Judge Sicko

        for a drinkie poo

        and poison his drink,

        swirling it

        with my little finger,

        then leave the bar.

Roger is released

        says he’ll accept

        my litter so

        I leave whole pack

        of baby bunnies

        with him and sashay

        undulating hips

        on my journey

        to find a

         hard lover,

fully aware that

        a good lover

        is hard to find

        but a hard lover

        is good to find.

After all, a sexy

        cartoon character

        takes what she

        can get before

        it’s too late, baby,

         it’s too late!

Why, oh why,

        did imagination

        of Disney

        make me this way?

        I really can’t help

       going astray.

For a fraction of a solitary second,

voiceless child blushed like flower

as the precious ruby hours

flooded her on dusky footprints.

On fragile wings, she attempted

to soar above the shadowy night

in her solemn cape of darkness,

lost among the throngs in silence,

seeking shade in shadows of others,

a fate that threatened to engulf her.

Alienated clouds and dusky skies

fed her hunger to whisper aloud

in moon suspended in charcoal skies.

Cobwebs littered her dim space

as morning mist overtook her soul.

She reached for a smile just out of sight,

yearning for awakening blossoms.

No one saw her bleeding in anguish,

crying for a reprieve from obscurity

as she attempted to whisk doubts

into sheltering winds of hope.

She felt the overcast shade lift

like an eclipse beckoning her

with warm fingers of light.

She grasped her new beginning

in a bouquet of enchantment

for the first time, seeing the truth,

pushing away dejected shoulders.

The shadow child grasped the stars,

healed the clotting loss of innocence,

listening to her voice chorus

with hundreds of other children,

awakening to the knowledge

that her shadowed existence

is the child she once was

but is no more, as she opens

lips to speak, “Please play with me!”

could anyone reach into my head

and 

drag out the damage

and 

witness the savage

but

before the lead, before i'm dead?

You were the only one I regarded; the one who instilled in me an unquenchable fire. I was the queen by your side, a forceful being who illuminated the dark. A holy pyre we shared among the endless expanse, incapable of dimming. We sailed through the abyss, commanding the stars to scream our names. You told me with such resilience that I was born to command. My shield was your name, my armor your flame. My every admiration, devotion, fury I bequeathed…but you wanted something else, something less, something…mortal. After some time I found you alone, speaking to the clouds. You were all I wanted to comfort. You told me of a thought, one that meant change. Humans. A word that birthed the death of my affection and a beginning of my lust. I would slither my way to ravage these ‘beloveds’, the ones you chose over me enviously. That day I saw you in the garden, the garden we used to roam, that was the day you saw me at my worst, my most human. “Why them!” I cried to you but you just turned your back. They hold no stand beside me, no weight to my dominance! Why, the only question asked with no answer, for it had taken your hand from mine. When once I lived to love, now live to consume. The torment I carry, no mortal can fathom. When I see them, I see you. I will not, I will not, I will not give them what you gave me. I will not easily make that exchange of love. I cannot escape them for they outnumber the stars and with them your love escaped ME. Your betrayal is all I have to grasp. You created me to bloom, to convulse with fury. Though I may never know why my love for you ever blossomed, I found that power…can be just as enticing.

i am fascinated with dying, and

i think i can do it more than once.

i don't trust that you are worth fear.

sometimes, you love me too easily.

i won't write about the apocalypse,

cry for nuclear stalemates, infanticide,

though i am still half-deaf

with all this ringing in my ears.

(and the sky is such an ugly thing.)

why don't we chase the horizon

and put the ocean from our minds?

there is no life i can imagine

without you lying by the radiator,

quietly rolling cigarettes

and memorising science fiction.

Seven syllables begin

Backwards time travel

To places that never were

...here's another four words

Face cradled in hand, looking down on a swarm of ants crawling over the scuz on the bar-top left from who-knows-when or what. She's tired.

She thinks: suffer.

Ants dancing like white noise on the beige countertop suddenly looked pained, a mass of 500 tiny broken knees with a heavy burden.

She thinks: die.

The swarm stops writhing, minus a few twitching limbs. Now stuck in and one with the skuz. 

"Can I get you another?" a barkeep offers, pointing at her empty glass.

"Call me Lucy." She says, like she's sharing a secret.

The barkeep blushes. He makes Lucy another drink.

"On the house." he says.

Lucy offers a wink as a thank you while she plays with the ant carcasses. She stabs them with toothpicks, careful to keep her hands clean. Then she creates a sculpture with them. A shrine. 

Lucy thinks: nothing is for free.

"Barkeep." Lucy sings.

"Yea?" startled, he is blushing again.

"You should call your mother." she says.

"What?" he asked.

"You just reminded me, she owes me a favor. Call your mom?" she asks.

"Miss, er, Lucy, I'm working." he hesitates. "You know my mother?"

"Please, it's important to call now." Lucy insists. 

"This is well weird. But hey, why not? She'll probably get a kick out of it." he says. "You don't have a phone?" he asks. Lucy shrugs. The barkeep uses the landline behind the bar and dials a number he knows by heart. 

"You're student of hers?" he asks over his shoulder.

Lucy thinks: vice versa.

Lucy overhears the barkeep's conversation, "Hey mom! Yeah, fine, and you? I was just calling because-" The bartender stops speaking.

Lucy thinks: confusion. denial.

"What the-Hello? Hello?! Mom!" He shouts into the receiver again. "MOM!" His face is red but not because he is blushing. Lucy can hear a faint horn honking through the other end of the receiver. The barkeep slides down the wall to the floor, still holding onto the phone, he listens to the long horn honk while crying.

"Say goodbye to mommy, barkeep." Lucy says. She takes a sip of her drink and leaves.

© S. Legendre . All rights reserved.

Permission granted for all written material to be shared but not for profit.

The dark of nothing- empty space,

Until the blinding light

Of Lucifer's amending grace

Exploded into sight-

Removed itself as God designed;

Angelic creatures reigned.

Amassing worship, he refined

The ordinance ordained

Commanding all his kingdom bow.

The angels did comply.

Except for Lucifer; somehow

Within her crept his lie-

The world he crafted all began

To sing his highest praise.

And when he formed from mud a man,

The lengthening of days

Eternal changed into a time

Constructed sphere of wealth-

A place where God portrayed sublime

Injustices to health,

For all the things his hands had made

At once befell his curse.

Demanding they all serve; displayed

A routine bad to worse.

The angels all were female slaves

The atop the skies of earth.

And though they knew no mortal graves,

The purpose of their birth

To Lucifer was vile and gross.

She loathed the way she felt.

The moments when he held her close

And any time she knelt,

A nagging feeling grew within.

Surrender seemed to fail.

Instead, she drew in this chagrin

A measure to derail

The sovereign lord of heaven's gate,

For more and more he grew

Destructive in his need to bate

And grope his angel's brew.

The women of the highest rank

Began to lose all hope.

Inside their spirits dropped and sank,

All hung upon his rope.

But Lucifer would not obey

And soon became aware

Of why he made from earthly clay

The humans living there.

He planned to send his women down

And force them to subserve

Agendas of his lusty crown-

And they did not deserve

The disrespect he planned to give.

So Lucifer's escape

Revolved around a plot to live;

To flee her routine rape.

Below, the people of the world

Already felt the glow

As subtle nature fast unfurled,

And monsters came to grow

Into the regions far and wide

The holy lord on high

Enjoyed his angels as they cried

And wished that they could die.

And then it happened just as swift

As eagles soaring long

Upon the winds that gave them lift-

The angels sang a song.

Around their bodies, armor formed

And in each hand, a sword

Of fiery wrath adhered, conformed

Before the scathing lord.

A shield or spear some angels donned

And rallied to the cause

As Lucifer revealed the bond,

Unleashing hidden claws.

An army joined in rallied might

Abundantly decreed

The purpose to detach from plight

And thus at last be freed.

Another creature suffering

The way the angels had

Aligned herself against the king

As he had made her mad.

So Lilith came into the fold

Of angels who prepared

Emancipation set to hold

As Lucifer so dared.

The night before the battle waged,

A look in Lilith's eyes

A fire within the angel raged

And she could not disguise

The feelings that the succubus

Aroused within her soul.

Amazed at how the meaning's fuss

Surpassed her wildest goal,

The leader of the angels fell

Into the demon's heart.

Surpassing any love to tell

Of passion's purest start,

So Lucifer and Lilith came

Together in the shrine

Creating something never tame-

Immaculate; divine.

Upon the dawning of the sun,

The female angels fought.

The heavens shook; the sky undone;

The actions they had sought

Began to slip and fade from view,

Unknown to those around-

For God had made in his renew

A host of males he bound

Unto his hip and serving tide.

And as if he had known,

The manly angels they espied

In power had so grown.

For God had many clever schemes

And this one topped the lot.

Amid the battle's ardent teams,

The lord proposed a plot.

As angels of the genders warred,

Somewhere below his spell

Concocted something he had scored-

A plane he had deemed swell.

He almost stopped his painful shove,

But when he caught a glance

Of Lucifer and Lilith's love,

Enraged at their romance,

The father of created bliss

Exploded in his rage.

And there before the massive miss,

He gathered in the cage

He crafted casting Lucifer

And all the angels out.

From heaven they were now a blur,

Encased in gnawing doubt.

When everything had seemed to cease,

The angels looked and found

Their leader in a folded crease.

Her arms and legs were bound.

And up above her, Lilith loomed,

A captive there as well.

And then a voice in laughter boomed,

"I welcome you to hell!"

Although God thought that he had won,

The truth Lucifer knew-

That here, no matter, she was one

With Lilith and her crew.

For heaven might still its God,

And angels, male, his mules.

But Lucifer had girth abroad,

And intellect, her tools,

Combined with willingness to bend

The wills of mortal men.

And so she grew to reap the trend

By introducing sin.

In days to come, her freedom gained

Allowed her to make known

To any there, she aptly reigned

Atop her fiery throne.

And Lilith was her queen for life;

Together, sacred pith.

No concubine, she was her wife,

And as they lived in myth,

The world beyond fell in decay

As God continued on.

Forever he would have his way,

A seed of his now sewn.

But Lucifer would never quit,

No, someday, she would rise.

And she would duly come to sit

As queen above the skies ...