And now I'm in a police precinct eight months later for...

Oh yeah. Supposedly defrauding and exploiting four-- no wait it was one hundred and four people now. I mean, if one could even call the 'cult' our fault anymore.

So, it started like this.

"On the night when a moon, the moon up there or Pinky's was full-- whaaaat?"

Okay. Okay.

I had to get used to the fact that cops usually had these hang-ups about being 'respected' and 'minded.' Like I was so gracious as to not bark and bite when dragged outside at eight in the morning. Geez. I wonder if even Bailey was of passion for-lorn to get me off that kind of high horse. What a heartless tomorrow awaited.

Until...

"He asked me to go to the cemetery with him 2:48 on the letter or ugh you know. You know," I said genial and truly, truly confident in this man's comprehension skills. "I dunno said some thing about haunted dirt. Shadows of dreams that one. No, no I'm serious this time. I mean he's not like, formally an occult freak or anything my guess is he watched too many horror movies or felt the apartment could use a poltergeist rather than the menace of society he is. But I mean good luck getting anything to stick. All that money, the ever-shining tireless wings of the justice system'll have their silent plea banished!"

"Just the facts."

"I know, I know. Can I get an eval. Sometimes, I do think I'm crazy."

That man I had to admit had the finest deadpan I'd ever seen. Discipline amazing as I'm sure his physicality must-- AND that IS WHERE I drAW the LIne!

"So I honestly went along hoping to tire myself out because it was well, three in the morning at that point. Call it some youth's youthful bravado but when we saw the grave robbers and I mean that very, very literally!"

"Yeah see, you get it!"

"Messed UP!"

"Like I said a rational person would gotten the f*ck out of the hood, but not Bailey. Oh no. And the stout one's whinging made me miss out on a Tirtouga! TIRTOUGA! I mean I'm just saying, that's why I went along with what happened next."

"And what was that?"

"Hmm, let me," I put a finger to my chin-- genuinely thinking-- only for the officer to sigh like he could hardly tolerate me at that point.

And to be honest, it was a little fair.

Either way I did need a moment because it'd been just a bit more than one heartless tomorrow thank you. What did that certain phrase mean? Where had I heard it?

Oh well.

"Right so, this is where it gets stupid. See, Bailey had this idea to scare them witless which for me; was hilarious, and for him, would get them to leave as well as getting a lead onto juust what their operation was. I had to be the shirtless, ethereal ghost of the pond and he was the mad cultist; the only mad cultist mind you. And it worked, then he wanted to take this shroud they used for some of the bodies. Yikes, still draw the line there but, he took it anyway. Anyway, we mostly followed the car tracks on foot which lucky us, made for an accessible second hit of a China shop. They were already inside so we'd planned to turn over the back of their van; breaking and looting all the stolen shit we could.

"Soooo, the back was painted all blood red and we threw stuff all around from behind, not gonna lie, that was epic, but by that point I wanted a drink which is how it didn't end from there and I ended up in the back of a car. So anyway, not sure how Bailey got that college girl from Malt Tech to help us or even believe in our shit but here we are now, so they drove to the pier, Bailey'd nabbed the right checklist to know where the stuff was all headed for sorting and later distribution and laundering. Now the four other run-ins with a three or so hundred pound semi I have to assume was them until they hit jackpot. I got the young ones there in on the con, I mean relatively young obviously so we made it out to be a ghost ready to kill and our demonic prayer circle, turned the whole ring on their leader. By then it was practically class time, if it weren't a weekend so we cut our losses, ready to go back home. Pretend like it all never happened. I swear."

So why didn't it?

"Alright so our new "followers" were ready to believe some demonic power is why that whole plan worked and frankly the after part made me wonder a bit too. So, while we were getting on home we find ourselves manhandled into a costume shop and barber with all of it paid for. And I got a breakfast and drink so at that point I didn't complain."

Look, "we really just wanted to dick around for food and other essentials. That's. It. They never had to kill themselves, never had to steal, never anything."

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

First off, let me say to the winning entry for last week: I did a long deep-dive into your profile after the narration and congratulations, then my entire setup crashed, rebooted just fine, but trashed a large chunk of the edited video. We'll make it up to you soon with a feature, stand on us. And: Congrats!!!! You wrote one hell of a story.

Also featured is a poem by one of our veteran writers, and it put the staff in a good and somber mood, in all the best ways. See all of this and the new Challenge of the Week just below this sentence.

https://youtu.be/lVdq_kwxGm4

https://theprose.com/challenge/14067

And.

As Always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

You are sitting at the window several stories up and the Moon is as if at your feet just beginning its journey, on the night. It's exactly as you say--the holes in the sky are inverse to the focus in your eyes. The back and forth, the twinkle and dark, the inward and outward reflection, is like respiration, like a hymn. A meditation. One syllable in; One syllable out. I do not know what happened in the Moth eaten past-- maybe it's personal, maybe it's Universal.

If you jumped now, surely, you'd roll out of these dark garments. You'd fall into the Moon with youth's bravado and no doubt you would rise with it. Not because you are so conceited; but because Imagination would carry you across the shadows of dreams that are pulling in, even now as we speak. When the Moon is centered, as it should be, everything will be tucked beneath our feet. Just like at High Noon, in a silent plea. Unless you are heartless, tomorrow you will wait for me. At strike of Midnight, you'll climb down, the hard way, down all those flights of stairs on your own two feet. You'll crawl if you have to; who knows how low you've sunk in the depth of your emotion to say that you feel so very empty--

--I will fill you. With tireless wings I will lift your blackened carcass as if the weight were meaningless. And I'll breath a single kiss of passion forlorn into your wordless abyss till the color floods back into your fingertips, back into your ankles, elbows, and knees, back to your mind, ventricles, and entrails and all your lifegiving forces-- readied like paint for the making. And when we're fully connected in broadest of daylight, you'll come to your senses. You'll stand with me willingly, forcefully, giving... like it never happened.

I was supposed to shelter you, all of you, inside myself, remember? For you, I would be that safe space, every incarnation, and desire of Imagination, at play. Can you feel me now? the brush of hair and skin that shivers with your hand tracing the contours of where I, I should have always been. Our eyes interlock, and you finally see right through me.

you say you hate happy endings and that a tragedy is all the more interesting yet they all see you sob in the theatre when the lovers part ways. the curtain closes and everyone has left because your wailing body is not a comfortable sight to behold. truthfully, you have lived this tragedy and it has made your heart weak and scared to ask for anything other than jagged edges or scraped knees. there is no light in this tunnel you've been living in and, when the water comes flushing in, you say you don't mind drowning when you're just too nervous to swim. you are ok with tragedy and that's the most tragic part of it all; you can't fathom another ending nor are you ready to embrace this miserable one. i hope, for your sake, you end in tragedy. after all, no matter how many bandages you wrap around the wing, a wounded bird will always seek the stone because there is no mercy in a flightless fight.

On the night of passion forlorn,

I sit and remember the youth's bravado,

when love was wild and never worn,

and the flames burned like a tornado.

But now it seems like it never happened,

that love that we shared so long ago,

a silent plea from our hearts unspoken,

as we stand here with nothing to show.

But I can feel it, with tireless wings,

that love can still ignite and fly,

away from the heartless tomorrow it brings,

to light up the shadows of dreams in the sky.

And I too wish to reunite our passion's flames,

to feel that love once again so strong,

and to never let it fade into oblivion's claims,

but to hold it forever, where it belongs.

After my father’s funeral

Friends and family gathered at his modest home on the bay

He had lived there over forty years

I placed his urn on the lowest step of the dock

So, those who wished to, could say a final goodbye

I went first, and using Daddy’s favorite coffee cup, I scooped up a mug of him

And poured him over the place we had put my mother a few years before

Several others took their turn

And then it was my cousin John’s turn

He reached into the urn and captured my father’s heart in his hand

As the ashes spilled slowly through his fingers, the breeze carried them gently to the water below

He was likely remembering every laugh, and joke, and every drink that they had ever shared

Up until that moment

I never realized how close they were

When will this suffering end?

Will you finally see me

standing in your shadow?

Or will I have to stumble on

alone and wounded,

trying to find something real,

something I can cling to

to pull me out of this quicksand.

Or will I just keep sinking,

the world around me

turning black and closing in

until I suffocate,

trying to pull in air

but only breathing sand and rock

and gasping and gagging

until the end comes

like much needed rest.

My own stories bore me.

I've lived them, turned about in their seams, and it seems all the magic is let out on the Night like a fluff of lint from the dryer... our tumbler of passion, forlorn and worn now like a shapeless garment subverting youth's bravado.

I wear the dark sky, Moth eaten. Searchlights are pouring in or out, I cannot be sure, but I can see the dust in which weeds are growing... like it never even happened!

Where could he go, having had his fill, of Nothing...?

And so this silent plea, in search of some new tireless wings to peer into each opening and stave off that heartless tomorrow, upon which every thread and limb of creation is hanging... with hunger.

Am I destined to fall into the moon, and rise with some withheld breath, like in a hot air balloon? I am looking out for that flittering creature with its harmless bite, and fluttering beating, like leaves parting in the window of the evening. I want to watch the interplay of Light and Shadows, of dreams catching up with Life.

Lavender.

All I want is to give her lavender.

Well, I actually want her hand in mine and to hear my name from her lips: "Zoey".

And yet, here I stand on her doorstop, afraid to ring her bell.

We have been friends and neighbors forever and my heart races thinking about the only two possiblities. Dating or never hanging out again. There was NO way she talk to me again if she rejected me.

I found the smallest courage and raised my hand to the bell, only for her to open the door first.

She smiled. "Hi."

"Hi, Liz."

aka Blair Witch Project III (the lost film)

The blood red moon foretold great evil in the woods that night. With fire in their hearts they set up camp. More specifically, Lady Prose set-up camp to the soundtrack of the Flame Lord's clickety clacking on the keyboard. Click clack. Click clack. Clickety clack. Click clack. The slightly off-beat rhythm of a white man. Figures he would type like he dances.

She shook the smile from her lips but couldn't keep the shine out of her eyes. "Flame Lord, I summon you to the fire pit!" Click clack. Click clack. Clickety clack. Crackety crack. Although he was shrouded in darkness, that last crackety crack betrayed his approach. "Yes milady?"

"Start the fire, won't you?"

"It won't keep the beast away, you know."

"I'm not scared of any beast. I have some poetry I would like to burn. Also, I have some marshmallows."

"How big do you want it?"

"As big as you can get it." The Flame Lord swallowed his "that's what she said" and proceeded to build the fire. Lady Prose wandered over to the typewriter and let her fingers dance over the keys. Before she knew it, she had a new poem to burn.

Suddenly, the woods became eerily silent. The fire crackled and the night air picked up and began to howl around her, though nary a leaf rustled. A purple bucket was placed at her feet. TheWolfeDen. Of course. Lady Prose caught the glint of the guillotine blade in the firelight and immediately knew she was not going to be invited to brunch next.

The wind shifted and revealed the presence of putski, thePearl and Shells ready to witness the execution. "Any final words?" TheWolfeDen intoned in strangely sultry timbre.

"Let me just change into something more comfortable."