She does not follow rules.

Not hers.

Not yours.

Penny found herself among people others insisted were friends. They made all of the right connections and said all of the right things. So fond of appearances. So distant from content.

Her room scan was penultimate to her action. She need not differentiate guilt from innocence among this crowd. Mere presence indicated intent.

Penny would not feel remorse tonight.

Within 24 hours, Detective Roberts had a series of electrical and building inspections for the loft covering the previous ten years. There was nothing to indicate faulty wiring or structural defects as suggested by the media. This six story converted factory succumbed to gravity not by chance. The only question was who stood to profit. Was the culprit among the dead or somewhere on camera, fleeing the scrutiny of prying eyes?

Amanda waited longer than Penny instructed. The fuel tank was full and the rear seat was stocked with provisions for the journey. Penny insisted on printed maps for she was not one to use any electronics. Perhaps the claims of tracking were true. Perhaps they were not.

Penny did not take chances. Neither did Amanda.

At least not with Penny.

Sinkholes are common where limestone substitutes for bedrock. Depleting the water table creates a vacuum (negative hydro-static pressure) in which residents abhor even the simple solution of permitting adjacent seawater to fill the void, thus restoring structural integrity. Water prices would soar and returns on investments would plummet.

Where Penny strolled, such concerns were of no consequence. She had her reasons for what she did. That (alone) should suffice.

Many of the buildings erected since 2008 arrived without the intent of anyone, ever, completing a mortgage. Rich residents move in. Dead residents move out. No one goes the distance. With an ocean front view, no one cares.

Roberts wished he wasn't so far from retirement. He had plans for later this summer. He had grandchildren he wished he knew better. He wanted to spend his mornings fishing.

But now, those plans lay asunder. Or is it, put asunder? Roberts didn't dwell on such details when there was work to be finished. With hundreds of hours of video to watch and more bodies being removed daily, his job would soon become a process of elimination exercise. That is if his people could identify the recovered bodies. That is if the bodies that were recovered actually died before the collapse.

Penny paid, as always, in cash for the deposit. She needed Amanda as the bank employee to vouch for the rest when the inevitable call came through. It didn't matter in the long run. Miss Emily Peters, aka Penny, wouldn't be here long enough for a long run to begin.

The building consisted of 48 units over 6 floors, each with an exposure to justify the added expense. Penny asked for a street side view to keep her payments reasonable. The agent abided her wishes but found such wishes to be illogical in her 20+ years of selling sea-view real estate. The view paid off with each sale reaping a sizable profit for both seller and agent alike. She implored Miss Peters to reconsider. Miss Peters became somewhat distant at the realtor's insistence, but simply returned a small smile translated as an ultimatum of "take it or leave it".

The realtor took the cash deposit and the details of future payment while she still could.

She would never see a future payment from Miss Emily Peters.

She would be lucky to see much of anything else.

Cunning.

Looking not so keen, but perhaps a little mean. If you step around to look at different angles you can see a deadly sheen, not so easily perceived just on looking.

Thoughtful.

Taking stock of all I see, not a tiny thing it seems, can escape the perceptive nature of the rarely noticed beast.

Angry.

Built by sorrow and regret, not allowed to err forget, the skullduggerish effect on my being. Taking issue with myself and the way I now reflect, on how I choose to answer when Noone can see me.

Relevant.

Though you try to overlook me with your lofty entitled tude. I shall be one to remind you, of the recourse of what you choose. I sense a bit of pompous air, about your crooked grin. I choose to let that guide you, for I'm all about free men.

Dangerous.

Ah' I see curiosity, all over your halfly embarrassed face. As your nose turns down, back toward the ground, you wonder of the taste. But in my eyes, you surely see, the end as your God chose. And wonder from what man made hell, this devil hath arose.

......

I sat upon the shoulders, of my grandpa proud and true. He told there'd be lot's of men, just like the likes of you. He told me there would come a day that I must make a stand, and spent the last days of his years, to cultivate this man. The stuff that he was made of, I've scant seen across this land. He knew that I'd be tested, by my family and my foes. And just how Papa knew it, I guess I'll never know. He taught me to have compassion for the others that have needs. And taught me that I pay one day, for my wrongful deeds. He knew that I had to be tough, but soft when times need be. For he saw a different future, in the boy that became me. He gave lot's of wisdom, some I've lost throughout the years. I wish that i still had it, so i could share it with my peers. He said always make decisions, after you've thought on them a while. And never pass a chance at love, or to see your loved ones smile. You see, all the best of that great man, lives in me today. And on I'll push to see the end, no matter how far away. I'm only bound by memories, that wish to hold me still. But nothing short of death, will ever crush my will.

-Gentleman Bastard

Love is love.

Love is caring for other people, for yourself, and the ones you bring into this world or at your orbit through kind acts or even barbs. We as people, we are very weird.

So, considering outside of the LGBTQ slogan for a minute, consider just how powerful love has proven to be. Scientifically, emotionally, psychologically, and societally.

"Humans have been known to suddenly gain the strength necessary to lift objects more than a dozen times their own weight."

Such a phenomenon is coined as hysterical strength, appearing aptly, when a person undergoes great amounts and times of distress. However, it's most documented instance is from Mothers who, out of love for their children, would lift a car off them with their bare hands.

Love then, evokes such powerful, all-consuming fervor and passions that while sometimes poisonous when not navigated or tempered properly, can also elicit the physical responses necessary to numb our own pain, drive our bodies and logical mind to its brink with adrenaline to a simple image... when that singular person we love more than life itself could leave us forever. We go to any lengths to protect and preserve them.

Love is both one of the most beautiful phenomena of our human race; immortalized in Romantic era artistry, comprising thousands upon millions of pages in fancy script poetry of odes, ballads, villanelles, sonnets... and also one of the most dangerous. As anyone with a middle school crush can attest, love hurts. It is such a succulent, divine pain in our chests, making us dizzy and so deliriously happy our idealized match.

Grief grips ever harder, in direct proportion to how much a person loves another. Whether they're a pet, a brother, a friend, or a partner. And God forbid anyone feel the death of a beloved child whether they are your son, sister, daughter, brother, cousin, godsibling/daughter/son/brother/sister.

A child, who loves so freely. Without ulterior motive or even expecting that love to be returned. They may love and show grace to the most terrible of people.

Love... truly decides how we move forward or how we defile and commit evil.

Crime of Passion, Crimes of lust and obsession. "Emotional Distress." The legalese to confront the red in our sights when even the mentally sound and happy kill.

In one fictionalized, powerful instance in the face of a sociopath who has already killed. The child of a father who as only a father would, comfort that child all the same whilst under his deluded lies. But did he deserve even then, to be shot down? The child killer was only ten years old.

The man pled "emotional distress" in legal proceeding. His son had been killed, who was to say that when his killer grew up-- at eighteen-- he wouldn't kill again?

"I will never kill again," was his promise. As he acknowledges the horrible crime he had committed.

And think of many creations.

Artists and writers, much like myself or anyone who reads and appreciates my work today. Everyone has come together on this page to share their love of writing. Who can create the poignant and powerful quotes we repeat or emulate the works they themselves love. With tender, reverent hands, imparting unfettered creativity and their own fond little twists. Such love and passion for what we do and our work is why writing competitions and forums exist in almost as many people there are in this world.

Painters who have made it their lives to smear white canvases with color and feeling, life, death, war, and peace... who have something to say. To perhaps the mysterious Mona Lisa, who was the love of Da Vinci, and wanted to properly capture what immesurable beauty he saw in her. Or Freida Kahlo, amidst grief, wished to honor her family, her ill husband, and even herself who suffered so much, lost so much in her life yet all the while persevered. Learning to appreciate and even immortalize her scars within her artworks. She encapsulates to so many just what it is to lose a child, how even a human life who has not existed is loved and remembered, still connected to the Mother who loved them so deeply.

As well as those who had something to say toward the world at large. For what they loved that was being defiled, they put into pastel colors or the gloom of depressive grey or soft hues of blue.

And so with years past we in the present "love and adore" these artists and their work. We seek to understand, to translate, and to preach the nuances of their work. We hold it in esteem, we adulate them in museums, galleries, and private collections. To this form of love we reward with all the fame and glamour enviable to the masses. So desired, so bitterly from our reach. A much more possessive, yearning kind of love.

Love is baked into human culture. So universal, only distinct in its expressions. In every culture we place emphasis on the love of a mother; how honorable it is to give birth and give yourself to the life you so yearned and have now created. Who will love you in turn by sheer instinct. We place such heavy importance on our ceremony of binding love between young men and women with their partners.

How a bride wears white, how a ceremony may be before God by a chosen priest, how family and friends all gather to watch. How to seat both sides of the family acutely aware of the differences in tradition, cultures, and class of people. Which many times are overcome in the best of love stories. An integral piece. Whom you love because of differences rather than despite. A bride is often at her most beautiful in preparation for and during her wedding. The husband has now matured into a fully blossomed man when he can set aside his desires and his pride to be wholly his wife's provider, her protector, and her one and only.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

What does dating a mortician, roadkill shoutouts, Shakespeare, tons of talent new to the site and our resident legends, a bad haircut, and over the counter flu meds have in common? The answer needs to be, "Nothing," but in today's video, each of those elements, and a few more, collide into each haiku in our last Challenge of the Week being read, after introducing the new Challenge of the Month, with a bit of pizzazz on this one.

Here's that link.

https://www.theprose.com/challenge/14207

And here's the link to the video on The Prose. Channel. I know for sure I dropped or misread a few words or usernames, but show mercy, if you would. I'll tag some of the writers in the comments, and a few writers new to Prose.

And, to them, from us: Big family home here. Pick a room, and walk downstairs for the feast, whenever you feel like it. Welcome home.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-FIElCwRN3Y

And.

As always.

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

You thought no one cared

Lay myself beside you here

What do you think now?

------------------------------

(To all of you out there, someone will always care. May you never believe in the contradiction.)

Amidst the hushed symphony of winter's breath, the small town lay enshrouded in a quilt of snow. Each building bore a weighty cloak of white, their shapes softened and rounded by the touch of frost. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, as if afraid to disturb the ethereal beauty that the season had woven.

City Hall, standing as a bastion of history and memory, cast a long shadow across the icy path that led to its back. It was here, where the hidden stories often find their home, that fate cast its mournful dice.

It was a night veiled in starlight and sorrow that I found myself wandering behind the grand edifice, my breath a ghostly wisp in the frigid air. There, amidst the quiet murmur of snowflakes settling, lay a sight that would forever etch itself upon my soul.

A lifeless form, clad in the stillness of death, rested upon the frozen ground. The snow around it seemed to cradle it, as if the earth itself offered solace to the departed soul. The face, once kissed by life's colors, now bore the pale touch of winter's grip. The cheeks, once flushed with vitality, now held the ashen hue of memories fading away.

But it was the expression that captured my gaze, an enigmatic blend of peace and longing. The eyes, clouded with the weight of eternity, seemed to beckon me to understand the journey that led to this tragic repose. Was it pain that etched those lines upon the forehead, or the shadow of a forgotten smile?

With a tenderness born from a heart heavy with empathy, I extended my hand, fingers trembling, to stroke the cold cheek. The frigid touch of the corpse's skin sent a shiver coursing through my spine, a stark reminder of the divide between life and death. Yet, in that moment, I could almost feel a faint echo of warmth, as if my gesture was a bridge between the living and the departed.

But as swiftly as a candle snuffed by the wind, the bitter cold clung to my hand, gnawing at my flesh. Frostbite, the cruel companion of winter's embrace, spread its icy tendrils, leaving a mark of its own upon me. It was as if the very act of seeking to comfort the lifeless form exacted its toll, a price paid for daring to defy the rules of existence.

Seated by the side of this silent companion, I offered my own fragile warmth. I whispered words to the stillness, words of comfort. The stars above bore witness to this somber vigil, their distant light casting a celestial glow upon the scene. In the quiet hours of the night, there was a strange communion, a shared moment between the living and the departed.

As the night wore on, and the moon's ascent marked the passage of time, I could feel the cold seeping into my bones, merging with the chill of the frozen ground beneath me. Yet, I remained steadfast by the side of the fallen soul, as if our shared vulnerability bound us together.

The stars above shimmered with an otherworldly light, I could feel my own heart slowing, my breath growing shallow. The boundary between life and death blurred, and I felt myself slipping away, my consciousness dissipating like a snowflake in the wind.

In that moment, there was no fear, no regret. There was only a sense of serenity, a feeling of unity with the world around me. I closed my eyes, and the cold no longer stung. Instead, it cradled me, embraced me, as if welcoming me into its icy embrace.

And so, I died that night,

I died,

I died,

I died,

Not with a sense of finality, but with a profound understanding of the beauty and fragility of existence.

Morning's light arrived as a silent herald, its soft touch brushing away the darkness. It was a tableau frozen in time—two figures, locked in their silent embrace, untouched by the dawning sun. The town's constables arrived, their footsteps echoing with a solemn rhythm. Their eyes held a mixture of pity and reverence as they surveyed the scene before them.

In their gaze, I saw the realization dawn—a connection forged in the throes of an unforgiving winter night, a gesture of solace given, and a shared fate met. With gentle hands, they carried us from that place, two souls united by the cold hands of death.

As the pages of time turned, the memory of that fateful night became a part of the town's very essence. It became woven into the fabric of its existence, every winter, when the snow blanketed the world in its icy embrace, the townsfolk would remember the stranger who had come to sit by the corpse's side.

The years went by, and the town changed. New faces appeared, and old ones departed. Yet, the story remained—a testament to the enduring power of the mysteries that lie beyond the veil of life and death.

As the news spread, the town mourned the loss of the stranger who had sought to comfort the departed. The grandeur of City Hall seemed to pale in comparison to the enigmatic tale that had unfolded in its shadow.

And so, dear reader, as you walk the streets of that small town in the middle of winter, remember the story of the stranger and the departed. Let their tale remind you that even in the face of death's icy grasp, compassion and human connection can transcend the boundaries of the ordinary, leaving an imprint that lingers long after the snow has melted and the seasons have changed.

There are no strangers in death.

I am scribbled on a sheet of scrap paper

while someone is on the phone

or at a restaurant on a cocktail napkin

while someone waits for a waitress

just distracted doodling

I am unfinished

a draft, a sketch, an outline

dropped out of someone's pocket

left on the floor of the museum

forgotten