Bitter Freeze
She stands still, looking across the room. She is not alone, friends and family surround her presence, but she stares, nods, and grins. She is present, she is absent, she is not in here or there, she devoid of location. She merely holds space, yet floats without direction in the emptiness of room which is a galaxy of nothing to her. Bitter is the only word that connects to her, its the only word she uses to describe her state. She lacks tactile, instict, visual sense, but she tastes the bitter. The wormswood, brimstone, anise contol the palate, it is her only partner. She is frozen in the bitter.
They Know
When you log in to Prose, you open a direct channel between your mind and the Moderators. That's what They call Themselves, at least. I prefer to think of Them as a hive mind. Individuals pulled together by common knowledge, Matrix-style. And for the first time, for this challenge, the Moderators have acknowledged that They know. They know what you are thinking when you are writing. They know your implicit associations. They know when you lie.
They sit in rooms where the walls are covered by computer screens, pointing at charts and charting the points. Points that denote what Their writers are thinking of that week, how their thoughts have been affected by the news, the latest disasters, the celebrity gossip. For instance, the week a certain "self-made" billionaire's best friend hooked up with the billionaire's sister's baby daddy, writer's thoughts turned to justifications for infidelity. But of the ones who considered writing about it, only 13% actually followed through. This suggested to the Moderators that Prose writers consider the ickier parts of their own lives, but only a small percentage are brave enough to write about their ugly bits. This knowledge may or may not prove useful.
Up until now, the Moderators have not abused Their knowledge. There has been no Cambridge Analytica scandal for the modest little writing site. The fact that They know has not yet become popular knowledge. Maybe writers will catch on because of the phraseology of this challenge. Maybe not. Perhaps the Moderators will never take advantage of Their knowledge. Perhaps They will. Only They know.
The Boy Who Killed
I was 11 years old the first time I saw him. It was the first day of school, a new school, in a new town, in a new state. My brother and I were the first to board the bus. He got on at the next stop, sauntering up the steps with a confidence I’d never felt in my life, and then to the very back of the bus where he slouched in his seat. I was certain he must be 6 feet tall, but that didn't make sense because I knew he couldn't be any older than I was.
As my brother and I slowly acclimated to the new situation in which we found ourselves, more and more students boarded the bus, and more and more laughter emanated from the back of the bus. Somehow, I could hear his voice above those of all the others. Like a king holding court, he seemed so much more worldly and confident than I. He was the classic “big man on campus” while I was “the new kid.” At last, when we arrived at school, he disappeared, clearly in a different class.
I don't remember so much the days that followed. However, there was this small, secret part of me that longed for him to notice me. Instead, every day he looked past me as if I did not exist. In time, it became a full-blown crush, though I was always too shy to even offer a smile.
To complicate matters, my mom had become friends with his mom. He had a younger brother the same age as my younger sister, and they played together while we were in school. To my chagrin, this never translated into an opportunity to speak to him myself.
With the beginning of the following school year, we moved on to junior high school. We were no longer on the same school bus, but I still caught glimpses of him at the school. I could see his house from my bedroom window. By now, I'm sure he was at least six feet tall, and he towered over most of the other students. However, his head was often down and he shuffled through the hallways as if attempting to go unnoticed. He had his group of friends, and it was different from my group of friends, and there was very little reason for us to interact. Furthermore, we did not share the same classes, so I really had no occasion to speak to him.
At some point during high school, I lost interest in him. It's not that I didn't care, but rather, I just didn't think about him anymore. It came to my attention that a girl with whom I had once been friends but now vehemently disliked was dating him. How strange, I thought. Knowing what a terrible person she was, I briefly thought, he could do better. But that was just me at the age of 17, holding on to an image of how I had pictured him at the age of 11. He was not that same boy, and perhaps never had been.
In February of 1983, during my senior year in high school, my small town was rocked by the news of a murder. It was unimaginable that something of this magnitude had occurred in our sleepy little town, and as more details came to light, it became even more unbelievable. It was a violent and brutal murder, involving a gunshot wound and 57 stab wounds, of one of the town’s known drug dealers. Apparently, this young man whom I had continued to hold in a very small part of my heart, might very well be the killer.
I made excuses. It couldn't be him. My friends and I became convinced that it was his girlfriend who had carried out the murder, and we were certain we were correct because we knew what a horrible person she was. We were sure that he was taking the fall for her. We waited for more of the story to develop, because surely, she would soon be taken into custody and he would be released.
But that's not what happened. In fact, were I to rely on my memory alone I would find very little information about what did occur. I was a senior in high school doing all the things that seniors in high school do, and gave very little thought to what had happened to him beyond the initial shock. 35 years later, I have news articles which tell me he was found guilty of murder and sentenced to 20 years in prison.
It’s difficult to be objective when someone you know, even if only peripherally, does something unexpected, something gruesome. It’s hard to reconcile the person you thought you knew with the person you now see, and perhaps that’s why the acquaintances of murderers always seem so surprised by the revelation, with comments about how quiet he was, how kind, how unsuspecting.
Shortly after the incident, had someone asked me what I thought, I’d have argued strenuously for his innocence. But what did I know of it, really? In truth, I barely knew him at all. I imagine even his family was shocked by it, and even more desperate to believe in his innocence. If we are to believe in the system of justice upon which we all rely, he was found guilty and surely that must mean that he committed this atrocious act. If it’s challenging to assimilate our impressions of someone with what has been shown to be true, perhaps it is necessary to alter our perceptions to more closely align with reality. Perhaps it’s not the information being presented to us which is the problem, but rather, it is our unwillingness to accept evidence that contradicts our false perceptions.
The boy I once thought I knew and on whom I had a secret crush was, in fact, a deranged killer. What does that say about me?
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When You Accidentally Put Hydrochloric Acid in Your Eye
1. Don't panick! (Alright let's be real you're already panicking)
2. It hurts a ton, but don't rub your eye. (which by now you're pressing your palm into your eye, but try not to rub at least)
3. This line is blurry, and your vision is blacking out in the other eye as your entire head throbs at random intervals, you might also experience some vertigo here. A.K.A. DON'T USE THE STAIRS. Trust me, the ground is already wobbly don't make it worse.
4. This is a good time to call out to anyone that may be nearby "I'm blind!" or "Ahhhhh!"
5. Flush your eye with water at least ten minutes (or until you can open it again).
6. Throw away that cursed bottle of hydrochloric acid.
7. Lastly, DON'T put hydrochloric acid in your eye! Read labels, they save lives.
