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.

Subdued world

Absent of vibrant colors

Accompanied Father for

65 years

Reds, yellows, greens

Hidden as muddy browns,

Blues muted to dull

Grays

A terrible shame,

A world half experienced

When surrounded by

Nature’s marvelous show

Father travels to

America’s Last Frontier

With his 3 children

In celebration of retirement

Half-pipe valleys,

Carpeted green,

Sprinkled with pinks and purples,

Meet cobalt sky

This trip MUST be

Fully experienced

With eyes capable of receiving

Such magnificent beauty

Children gift Father

Magical glasses,

He slides them on

“What do you see, Dad?”

“Oh    My God”

Father instantly transports

To an extraordinary world

Bursting with colors

Of the entire spectrum

Muddy browns, only the moose as

Vivid greens

Visit his eyes now,

A world fully experienced!

That all too familiar feeling. The pain it evokes. The unobstructed loathing. A burning fire that cannot be quenched but through tears, and it will have its tears. It starts slowly, and grows stronger and stronger each time it comes to visit. That feeling of dread when I feel it coming like nothing I've ever known. The tears spring to my eyes as I try to escape. The heat of the blaze closing in on me, daring me to cry in front of everyone. But I can't. How could I let everyone see me cry, they'd think I was sad, and they'd be wrong. After all, who cries from anger? Seething, I flee the scene, lock myself away until the tidal wave of hate washes away. My face red and sore, my body tired and weary. I've survived this battle, but it'll be back. It always is.

I walked slowly, basking in the warm sun. Leisurely heading out to run errands, I heard a song. Now, normally this wouldn't stop me in my tracks, or send chills down my spine, or make me drop my bags, but today it did. And I had to find out why. The tune was haunting, but in a good way. It gathered up speed, but didn't feel rushed. It was cheerful and happy, but with weight behind it, like a wise mother who hides a dark secret so her children won't worry. I turned towards the song and ran, forget errands I HAD to find out what this song meant.

Running through the crowds I came upon the source of the magnificent song, an old man with a violin. There was a crowd of at least thirty people around him, his hat overflowing with coins. I waited until the haunting melody was over, and the crowd gone to ask him about the song. He told me about a woman his father knew who had told him of a man her mother had known, so far back that they'd lost track along the way. This woman had sung this very same song for his father, and his father had played it on his flute for him. He told me of all the cities he'd been to where people had stopped in their tracks and asked about this song. A song that everyone knew, but no one knew why. Nobody could tell why they were drawn to this song amid the bustling city with plenty of other musicians playing plenty of other songs. But they came, drawn like moths to a flame. The power that this tune had was incredible. It gave out confidence, bravery, happiness. It evoked feelings that no one understood. It was single handedly the most wonderful and terrible song there ever was. I turned to the old man and asked if he had taught anyone the song yet. And he said "no, I was waiting for someone to come along and ask,"