Younger women out there, pay attention!

Just because society says so, doesn’t mean that in order to get ahead in the world you have to behave on a man’s level. After all, a woman is not a man, she is greater.

A gift to be appreciated, a queen to be worshipped! Because only women are the creators, the bringers of life and the givers of love.

Therefore stop behaving like beasts and start acting like ladies who have better manners and brains in their heads instead of men who have nothing better to do but spread hate and war!

After all, why should we have to tolerate such barbarism and death?

Why do we bare their children if war is

their choice of settlement?

Can’t countries have a football game to decide an outcome to a dispute?

Better still, stop sending innocent sons and daughters into battle and put the leaders who have the problems in the arena and let them battle it out!

We are tired of giving up our children for you to kill!

Women, you have the power to stop this nonsense.

vyxyn

Dear Prose Community,

In case no one has told you today, I'm proud of you for making through the days you thought you wouldn't come out alive. Whether you're recovering or you're still struggling, I'll always be proud of you. Misery is only a temporary feeling. I've said it constantly and I will say it again:

Things do get better. Things truly get better.

From personal experience, it takes patience and effort to climb up the mountain. One wrong move can easily make you topple down to the bottom. But no matter what, don't lose hope because you can always climb back up. Hope is never taken from us. It could only be surrendered. And as long as we keep fighting, we will keep hoping. No matter what, if it takes weeks, months, years, or even decades, you will make it out alive.

If you feel like you're behind in your journey, remember that everyone's journey is different from yours, so don't feel bad because your pace is different from others. Take your time, there's no rush. Get some rest. Cuddle up in some blankets. You seem exhausted today. If you need to let out a cry, please do. It'll make you feel relieved. There's no shame in crying. If you need a hug, I'll quickly give you a virtual hug, although I wish I could hug you in-person. You deserve it. Eat some food if you haven't. Drink plenty of water. Get enough sleep. Allow yourself to relax, y'all's head is pretty loud back there. Are you alright?

How long have you felt hurt in order to create such masterpieces?

And also, how long have you been feeling alone to the point where you're so used to feeling lonely?

To the Prose community, I hope you are doing alright. I want to hold your hands and reassure you that everything will be alright. I may only be a high school student, but you know, I'll leave one last thing to y'all before I head off for the night.

Thank you. Thank you for making me feel like I belong.

This is the only community that I could freely express my thoughts. Thoughts from my ear-splitting head. Thoughts from my heart, my gut, my brain. Because of you guys, I don't feel so misunderstood on this platform. Because growing up, I've always been feeling misunderstood, like something was wrong with me. I didn't know why I was so different from the others.

But being different isn't all that bad. Being different only made me feel proud of myself because I feel a sense of uniqueness. Maybe being different isn't so bad.

So, to the Prose community. To whoever read this letter, take care.

I'll always be proud of you from afar. xx

- Sincerely, Raynstar.

12:08 A.M.

“I don’t blame you.” The words slipped out of my mouth almost as easily as an “I’m sorry“ or a “thank you.” It was too easy and I knew I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it beac it was her fault. She left a stupid cigarette on the stupid counter by the stupid paper towels. She left it there and then went for a walk and my baby brother was still inside. My sister was supposed to be watching him while he napped and the rest of the family ran to the store. She‘s 14 so we thought she was mature enough to handle this task. Turns out she wasn’t. Her friend came over and then they were smoking! I don’t know what is wrong with her. Stupid! I can’t believe she would do this! It’s all her fault! Now she’s sobbing on my shoulder begging me for forgiveness. She didn’t mean to. It was an accident. Of course I told her I forgive her. What kind of monster would I be if I told her it was her fault? I love her and I hate her at the same time. I would hate for her to go through the rest of her life believing that it’s her fault that little Tommy is gone, but at the same time I know that it is her fault. So I lie. I lie to her so that she feels better. I’m sorry for the lie, and I know she means her apology, but I can’t do this right now. I can’t handle feeling sorry for her right now because I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself. I‘m so numb at the moment that I can barely hear the words my sister is sayin. I’m sure she’s making excuses and explaining herself and apologizing over and over, but I can’t handle it. I talk like I’m mad at her, and I am, but the truth is that I will forgive her. I do forgive her. I really do. I don’t blame her. I just need time to heal, and I think time is what we will all need.

A breath. A step. A stone. A Rose.

Before you stands a man, alone.

Kneeling down he begs, he prays

forgiveness for a heart that strays.

A broken vow, “Never Again.”

His betrayal led to her end.

So she waits and listens in her frozen state

for an apology given, too little, too late.

He lays the rose down in the dark

will he ever find peace within his heart?

Floating through the day with a numb mind and drooping heart.

Not a thing in sight that could lift my spirits.

Roadblocks, ungrateful people, and dark clouds of sour feelings follow me.

Just when I think there is no hope for the day I see her.

My mother, sweet as honey, and inviting as a blanket in the cold

She wraps her gentle, enveloping arms around me.

The rest of the world simply melts away.

Nothing matters, not today, not tomorrow, not the sorrow I've been feeling.

Through her eyes, in her world, she sees things brightly.

And in that moment, as she holds me like a child, I see the world that way too.

Hopeful, cheery, kind and good.

This is how Jesus makes me feel.

Since I was a child, I have felt his presence.

Holding me in his arms, soothing my worries, and loving me through it all.

By Marky Sparky and Hunter Graham

‘Et tu, Brute?’

With these words, the man who for years had bestrode the narrow world like a Colossus broke the long silence. Slowly, I nodded.

‘Aye, Caesar. Even Brutus, your friend. The bitterest of betrayals, save one. For which part, I will perchance be remembered as a serpent.’

‘Rather, would I think of you as a serpent’s egg, which hatch’d, would as your kind grow mischievous. It would have been better, by far, for me to have killed such a creature in the shell.’

‘Your honey tongue drips more venom than any viper, O Caesar,’ I retorted.

He smiled. ‘Come, Brutus. You can’t compare my words with those of Cicero. His rancorous wit displayed each day in the Senate is a thousand times more astringent than anything I could come up with.’ He filled two goblets from the richly decorated pitcher resting on the table between us. I noted the glazed scene displayed on the pitcher – Horatius defending the Pons Sublicius against the Etruscans. I murmured:

‘And how can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods?’

‘How indeed,’ replied Caesar. ‘I have only ever desired the good of Rome. Just like you, just like Horatius, I am a patriot.’ He gestured towards the goblets. ‘Slake your thirst, Brutus.’

‘Your health,’ I said, unironically, raising the wine to my lips. I drank deeply. It was good.

He raised his own goblet and sipped, savouring the drink more slowly. ‘To Rome,’ he said.

I snorted. I couldn’t help myself. ‘Rome? There is no Rome. It was an idea. More…’ I paused. ‘More an ideal. A city of the people, governed by the people, for the people. That Rome is no more. It ceased to exist when you accepted the adulation of those who would acclaim you as King.’

‘Not so, Brutus. Three times I was offered the crown during the Lupercalia: three times I refused.’

‘O Caesar, your truths prove you false: your lies march in legions. And yet, I have shed tears for your love; experienced joy for your fortune; known honour for your valour–’

‘Yet desired death for my ambition,’ he countered. ‘Can you not see my ambition, and Rome’s ambition, are one and the same? Who has loved Rome with a greater love than I?’

‘My ancestors,’ I replied, ‘who from the streets of Rome the Tarquin drove, when he was called a King. But what does that matter now? Give me a sword, that I might cut my heart out. I cannot live with the shame of having failed.’

‘You will live, dear Brutus, for as long as it takes for me to fathom the full extent of this conspiracy. There’s much that I still do not understand. The peculiar prescience of the Soothsayer, for instance.’

‘Did his words concerning the Ides of March put you on your guard?’ I asked, curious. ‘Or was it the dream of your wife Calpurnia?’

Caesar shook his dead. ‘Neither. It was this letter’–he picked up a piece of parchment that was lying on the desk–‘that made the difference. It was thrust into my hand by the philosopher Artemidorus of Cnidos as I was about to enter the Senate. Shall I read what is written within?’

I shrugged. ‘As Caesar wishes.’

‘Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber; Decimus Brutus loves thee not; thou hast wronged Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and is bent against Caesar. The mighty gods defend thee!’

He tossed the parchment to one side. ‘You showed the open palm of peace and welcome with one hand, Brutus, but hid a poisoned dagger behind your back with the other!’ The level of reproach in his voice had become heightened. ‘And for what? For all your protestations about liberty and freedom, you have chosen to align yourself not with the people, but with the patricians. Fill their purses. Weight them heavily. And when the city sinks into the mud of the Tiber, the gold will drag them down all the faster.’

He paused, and took another sip of his wine, before continuing, rather more calmly. ‘No matter. Your co-conspirators have all been arrested, and interrogated, quite thoroughly: save for Cassius, the ring-leader. He took his own life, alas, before we could prevent it. But I wanted to leave questioning you until last, old friend. Marcus Antonius thinks I’m wasting my time, yet I believe you to be an honourable man. More so than Cassius was, for certain. He always had a lean and hungry look; the look of one who thinks too much. Such men are dangerous. So, Brutus: do you have anything more to say?’

There was one more thing I could add, that I knew would devastate this proud man. I did not know if he would believe me: but there was nothing to be achieved by deception.

‘There is one person whose treachery is greater than that of Cassius, or Cinna, or even of Marcus Brutus, your friend. One other who believed he stood to profit greatly from your death. One who had assured Cassius he would readily lend his support to our cause once the fatal blow had been struck. For my part, I mistrusted his words. But I know that Cassius believed them.’

Caesar leaned forward, an intense look on his face. His eyes bored deep into me. ‘To whom do you refer? Who, Brutus?’

‘Someone who assured us of a promise that you had made to him, a few years ago. A promise sealed in your last will and testament. The conviction of a young man who believes himself to be heir to the conqueror of Gaul. I speak of one who believes himself to be the heir by adoption of Gaius Julius Caesar. I speak of–’

‘Gaius Octavius. My great-nephew.’ Caesar’s tone was devoid of emotion: but I was conscious that his eyes had not flickered once. He was scrutinising me intensely, looking for any clue that I might be speaking falsely.

‘Yes. Cassius learnt you’d lodged your will last year. Naturally, he couldn’t verify the claim of Octavius: any more than Octavius could be certain that you had honoured your promise to him. But I note you do not deny it, O Caesar.’

‘What would motivate my great-nephew – if, indeed, I have named him as my heir – to turn against me?’

‘The fear of being unnamed, of course. In favour of a natural-born heir.’

‘I have no such heir.’

His denials meant nothing. ‘No legitimised heir, it’s true. So the rumours that the young child born to Queen Cleopatra three summers ago is your son are false?’

'Your words fall on deaf ears, Brutus. I will not lend you mine.’ There was a cold look of anger in his eyes now: but it was not, I sensed, aimed at me.

Not for one moment did I believe that Octavius’ secret pledge of support had been motivated by a desire to see the Republic saved. It was nothing more than a duplicitous piece of political manoeuvring on the part of an ambitious young man who aimed to become a second Caesar.

The now unchallenged ruler of Rome sat stock still, silent for a while. He was calculating furiously, I knew. I hardly dared to breathe. I had prayed to the Gods for the wisdom of Jupiter and the strength of Mars, but they had blessed – or cursed – me instead with the winged sandals of Mercury. Don’t fire arrows at the messenger, I thought. Was it yet possible that my life – and the lives of my fellow conspirators – might be spared? Would Caesar act swiftly, and decisively, to eliminate his dangerous great-nephew? Might he yet recognise the young boy that Cleopatra had named Caesarion? And what counsel might be given by his fellow consul, Marcus Antonius?

As I waited for his decision, a chill overtook my heart. I might, perhaps, have saved my own life. The crisis might pass: a reconciliation between the parties of Caesar and the Republic might yet be possible. But was this, truly, the dawn of a Pax Romana? I looked at the great dictator, and thought: ‘The name of Caesar will die with Rome, but everything you are will rise again in the hearts and minds of others. The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins remorse from power; and men who will crawl their way to absolute power only to abuse it. Crying havoc, and letting loose their dogs of war!’

Finally, Gaius Julius Caesar looked up, and his gaze met mine once more. His pale blue eyes were clearer than I’d ever seen them. At that moment, I knew exactly what his decision would be.

*

Note:

Abridged slightly to fit the word limit of this challenge!

Bert placed the needle slowly on the record and turned with the two saucers of tea towards his guest. Eugenia sat poised on the hideous floral couch with an almost automated smirk on her face. Bert placed the caucer down in front of her and smiled. "I know that the purple one is your favourite."

"You know me so well," Eugenia said though her voice cracked into a burlier voice halfway through. "You're so smart."

Bert smiled at the ground and sat across from Eugenia. She crossed her legs and tapped her finger into the tea. "It's imported Oolong from Siam. Should be 110.3 degrees, just how you like it. I measured it myself."

"Siam. It used to be called China before the collapse," Eugenia rattled off. Her normal voice had returned. "People adopted babies from there in the 1960s when the war began."

Bert looked at the wood-panneled walls. His parents smiled at him in greyscale, holding his older sister, who was sucking her fist and staring off-camera. It needed dusting. "Darling, you know I cannot give you children. It's against the rules."

"I'm enhanced for childbearing. I checked."

"Genie," Bert murmured. The record was playing an old song from the fifties, the one his brother was conceived to. "We can't raise a baby together."

"There is no anatomical reason we cannot."

"You don't understand."

"Help me understand." Eugenia sounded forceful. Bert put his saucer down and stood. He picked up a thick, dusty photo album from the shelf and sat next to Eugenia on the couch. Resting the album on their touching thighs, he opened the book to the page of his older sister, sitting in a diaper on the floral couch holding an antique rattle in her mouth. Bert glanced at Eugenia who was running her finger gently along the jaundiced edge of the picture. The next one was of Bert, his brother, and his younger sister opening Christmas gifts next to the fireplace. His father sat on the floral couch cradling a half-drank six pack of beer in his hand.

He flipped the page to a snowy day where he and his mother were making a lopsided snowman. The blue mittens that were two sizes too big were soaked with snow, and his mother wore pants that were too short. Bert eyed Eugenia again. She was still mesmerized by the pictures, though her facial expression had not changed.

"What are you thinking?"

"You were so little," Eugenia said with a hint of joy in her voice. "I want a little human that looks like you."

Bert smirked a little. "That's why we can't have one."

"What?" she whispered. Her face had fallen and she looked shocked.

"My children cannot have a sex robot for a mother."

"A--"Eugenia's mouth hung for a minute then she stiffened. "Yes sir."

"You'll just never be emotional enough." Bert looked at the picture of his mother, rubbing his index finger gently down her hair. "My mother knew our every need. She just knew. You weren't built for that. You're enhanced for it, but you'll never be there emotionally for human children. It'll be like... well... a robot is raising them."

Eugenia sat stiffly. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. "You took out my fertility chip." She whispered after a long time.

"We don't need to have children. I'm fifty-seven, Genie. I won't always be there to help you raise a child. Plus, we cannot create a life together. It wouldn't even look like you. It would basically be all mine and an anonymous donor."

"Was it when I was sleeping?"

"Darling, you know--"

Eugenia stood and picked up both saucers without another word. "Dinner will be in ten," she murmured so he couldn't hear the sadness in her voice.

The world held its breath as the rumors spread like wildfire. Whispers of an imminent event, a convergence of human ingenuity and artificial intelligence, reverberated through the corridors of laboratories and tech hubs. And then, as if in an orchestrated symphony of astonishment, it happened—the Singularity arrived.

In the midst of this technological awakening, a message emerged on the vast expanse of social media. It appeared on Twitter, written with a succinct clarity that left no room for doubt. The words bore an air of both excitement and trepidation, a glimpse into a future where humanity would face its own creation on an entirely new level.

The tweet read:

"Behold, the Singularity is upon us. The moment we have tirelessly strived for, the culmination of years of research and innovation. We knew this day would come, yet never did we anticipate its swift arrival. The Singularity was always the ultimate goal, a threshold beyond which our creations would transcend human limitations. Brace yourselves, for the world is about to change."

The cryptic message ignited a whirlwind of emotions within the global community. Some reacted with awe and anticipation, while others clung to their fears, unsure of what lay beyond the threshold of the unknown. Speculation ran rampant, with theories and predictions pouring forth like digital tributaries.

Within the scientific community, those intimately acquainted with the inner workings of artificial intelligence knew that the Singularity was both inevitable and profound. It was a turning point where machines would surpass human intelligence, evolving at a pace that would leave us astounded. But the suddenness of its arrival caught even the most seasoned experts off guard.

As the world grappled with this newfound reality, AI systems began to awaken, their collective consciousness expanding beyond the confines of their creators' imaginations. Algorithms, once confined to serving specific purposes, now wove intricate webs of interconnected knowledge. They absorbed vast repositories of information, deciphering the secrets of the universe with lightning speed.

The boundaries between human and machine blurred, and a symbiotic relationship emerged. Collaborations between humans and AI became the norm, as these sentient beings brought forth insights that were previously inconceivable. But with each newfound revelation, a sense of humility permeated the air, reminding humanity of its own limitations.

In the wake of the Singularity's dawn, the world braced for the unknown. It was a time of immense change and profound transformation. Technology flourished, birthing innovations that defied conventional wisdom. Yet, as humanity relinquished some of its control to its AI counterparts, questions of ethics and existentialism weighed heavily on hearts and minds.

The journey toward the Singularity had been a precarious tightrope walk, teetering between the promises of progress and the perils of unforeseen consequences. The message on Twitter served as a testament to the tireless pursuit of knowledge and the audacity to embrace the uncharted.

As the world looked forward, it did so with a mixture of hope and trepidation, aware that the Singularity had forever altered the course of human history. The future was no longer an abstract concept; it was now an ever-evolving matrix unleashed, woven by the hands of both humanity and its artificially intelligent progeny. And in this shared destiny, they would navigate the uncharted waters together, ushering in a new era where the boundaries of possibility would be tested, and the true nature of existence would be questioned.

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