It was six o’clock in the morning on Saturday, still dark, and all seven of Sophia’s brothers and sisters were sleeping soundly. But she was awake; there was no chance of her going back to sleep now. Down the stairs she went, on tiptoe, enjoying the silence of the house and pushing thoughts of pre-dawn monsters out of her head.

Sophia was almost always first up. She had curly brown hair, dark eyes, and was almost the youngest, except for Tasia. She liked doing things for herself, so, after looking at a few picture books, she decided to make some breakfast. With three years tucked under her belt, she thought it would be pretty easy. She was wrong.

The first thing she wanted to make was eggs. Sophia loved eggs, especially the way her nanny Mary made them. Not only that, but it was fun to cook eggs, to watch them sizzle and pop.

She opened the fridge and found the egg carton. It was a bit heavier than she expected, but she managed to place it on the floor. (Sophia knew that Mary and Dad and the big kids cooked on the counter and stove, but she was too little to reach) But as she opened the carton and picked out a nice, white egg, she realized she could not remember how it was that Mary did it. She knew that the egg sizzled and popped and the clear part turned white, but she was not quite sure how it happened. After a little consideration, she thought, To make an egg you have to to crack it. I know that.

So Sophia cracked the egg. On the floor, of, course; the counter was much too high. And there was the egg, spilled out on the floor, but it wasn’t sizzling or popping or turning white. The only part that looked at all right was the yolk.

Sophia found another egg. If it didn’t work the first time, maybe it would work the second. She cracked it open, less carefully than the first, and the clear fluid and yellow yolk spilled out. Now, she may have forgotten how to cook good eggs, but she remembered one thing: raw eggs were slimy, and tasted nasty. And she was angry at the nasty raw eggs for not turning into nice cooked eggs like they were supposed to.

Maybe it only works if you crack it on the counter, she thought. This was a frustrating thought, since the counter was so uncomfortably high. She picked out a third egg and looked at it gloomily. Then she had an inspiration; she could throw the egg at the counter. Sophia had never seen Mary throw an egg before, but at this point, she was willing to try anything. Swish went the egg into the air, and crack! it hit the edge of the counter. The raw egg plopped down to the floor.

Sophia watched it carefully for any signs of sizzling or popping or turning white. But the nasty raw egg just sat on the floor, looking more and more not cooked the more she looked at it. Now she was mad, really mad. She picked up the egg carton, three round white eggs left inside, and tipped them out onto the floor.

Crack! Crack! Splat! went them all, and Sophia, her vengeance satiated, decided that if eggs were not going to work, then cereal would have to do. She knew that cereal was easy because even Janae who was six could make it.

It wasn’t difficult to find a box of Honey-Nut Cheerios in the pantry, but the milk was a different matter. Only because it was half-full was Sophia able to drag it out of the fridge onto the floor. Panting and sweating, she sat down, trying to remember how to make cereal. Well, she thought, first you have to pour the cereal. 

So she poured the cereal. The Honey-Nut Cheerios mounded up on the kitchen tiles. Already Sophia had an inkling there was something not quite right, but she had been denied her breakfast too long to care about specifics. Next she poured the milk, which was much more difficult. She ended up just tipping the container over and spilling the milk all over the floor, but some of it spilled into the Cheerios. Which ought to work, Sophia thought.

But it didn’t. There were the Cheerios, scattered on the floor, and there was the milk, running all over the kitchen and filling the cracks between tiles, but still it did not look like how cereal ought to look. And then it dawned on her. A bowl! Of course, that was what she needed. 

But, oh, the unfairness of the world. The bowls were in the high kitchen cupboards, even higher than Mary could reach—Dad altitude. Just my luck, thought Sophia.

But in the end Sophia got her breakfast. Janae and Eric woke up an hour later, and everyone had some waffles. Janae spilled a little syrup on her chair, but no so much, only enough that her waffle got stuck to it. Then they all played Nest, which was gathering all the blankets and pillows into a big pile and then jumping inside.

After a long while, some of the older kids came downstairs. They seemed very, very angry that there were eggs and cereal on the floor. And Dad looked especially tired when he woke up that morning.

But Sophia didn’t really understand why. She had just wanted to make some breakfast.

Note: I remember waking up one morning and finding such a mess in the kitchen that I went back upstairs instead of trying to clean it up. This story is inspired by that day, when Sophia's weekly attempts to make breakfast early on a Saturday mounted to the biggest mess yet. Later on, when she was about eight, Sophia described her “breakfast-making” thought process to me: how she felt as a three-year-old trying to make her own food. I elaborated a bit, but it is all based on what she told me.

The stranger knocked upon the door,

A creaking, wooden throb,

And someone on the other side

Unlatched and turned the knob.

Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"

And, "May I use your phone?"

The person on the other side

Appeared to be alone.

An observation taken in,

No pictures on the wall.

He pointed somewhere down the way-

"Go on and make a call."

The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled

As wires were cut instead.

The gentleman began to sense

A subtle hint of dread.

A conversation thus ensued-

"So what has brought you out?

The rain has flooded everything,

And wiped away the drought.

Say, did you walk, or did you drive?

Why don't I take your coat?"

The stranger slowly moved his arms,

A sentimental gloat.

The water from the pouring skies

Enveloped cloth and shoe.

"Say, would you like a place to sleep?

I'll leave it up to you."

The person on the other side

Discarded his mistrust.

The stranger said his tire was flat,

And shed the muddy crust.

"The phone won't work," he also said.

"It could just be the storm.

Perhaps I will stay here tonight,

To keep me safe and warm."

The patron of the house agreed.

He hadn't seen the wire.

The chilly dampness prompted him

To quickly build a fire.

"You have a name? They call me Ed.

My wife was Verna Dean.

She passed away five years ago

And left me here as seen.

I guess it's really not so bad.

We never had a child.

I loved that Verna awful much,"

He said and sadly smiled.

"No property to divvy up.

The bank will get it all.

Say, do you want to try again

To go and make that call?"

The stranger grinned and left the flame

As to the phone he strode.

Within his pocket, knives and twine

In hiding seemed to goad.

A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;

Eviscerate him whole.

The twine would keep him firmly held;

The knife would steal his soul.

A lusty surge erupted hence;

A wicked bit of sin.

The stranger hadn't noticed yet

That someone else came in.

About the time a shadow fell,

He spun to meet a pan.

The room around him faded out

As eyes looked on a man.

A day or two it seemed had passed,

And when he woke all tied,

The stranger gazed upon old Ed

Who simply said, "You lied."

Reversing thoughts, the moment fled

And Ed said in a lean,

"No worries, stranger. None at all.

Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"

He looked upon a wraith in rage;

It seemed his little lie

Combusted in a burning fit-

He didn't want to die.

So many victims in his life,

Some fifty bodies strewn.

And now he was the victim; now

The pain to him was known.

The stranger fought against the twine,

And noticed by his bed

The knife once in his pocket left

A trail of something red.

A bowl filled full of organs sat

As Verna poured some salt.

She exited with all of them.

"You know, this is your fault.

We demons wait for just the day

The guilty take the bait

And play with matches one last time-

I simply cannot wait

To taste the death within your flesh;

The venom in your gut.

So now you know the way they felt-

Hey, you've got quite a cut!"

The person on the other side

Removed his human skin-

Before his wife came back for more,

He offered with a grin:

"Say, stranger, is there anything

You'd like to say at all?"

I looked at all the blood and said,

"I'd like to make that call ... "

Pssstttt...

Prosers. It's back!!!

It went on hiatus and now it's back and better than ever. It's only Prose Challenge of the Week #55.

This week we will be doubling the prize fund and the length of time you have to win it. Yes, that's right, the Challenge of the Week is going to be worth $200 and will run for two weeks.

After these two weeks, we will return with a weekly prompt and a prize fund of $100.

So, let's take a look at how you can get your hands on the prize...

Challenge of the Week #55: Write a story of 200 words or more about a stranger. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $200. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit

200 words (or more) for 200 big ones. That's $1 per word. Easy right?

Put your pens to digital paper and get entering the first Prose Challenge of the Week 2017.

Here's to big and bold things.

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

It’s that magical day once again. It’s bloody Friday. Which means we bash down doors with our Friday Feature battering ram once again and root through the memories and thoughts of another Proser. This week we are lucky enough to have the bright ray of sunshine that is the one and only @Dark

P: What is your given name and your Proser username?

D: Mark is the name my parents assigned, the sound a hairlip dog makes. I go by Dark on Prose, mainly due to my perspective on life and the human conditions I experience and observe.

I have been called a pessimist, but I argue a realist. It is not an overt intention to be maudlin, melancholy, and Dark, but simply how I am. I do find beauty in much of life, although I am more in tune with the shadows walking hand in hand.

P: Where do you live?

D: I am a third generation Colorado native. Most of life saw me haunting the suburbs of Denver, but I now reside high up in the Rockies in a small town just outside Glenwood Springs, home of the world's largest natural hot springs pool. Open year round alongside the banks of the Colorado River, the pool harnesses 3.5 million gallons of mineral rich waters bubbling up from the earth's core EVERY DAY.

P: What is your occupation?

D: Currently I am the In-school Suspension Supervisor at a local middle school, which means I spend my days monitoring the behavior and productivity of the somewhat less than cream of the crop students. Before this, though, I taught high school English for many years. During that tenure, I coached, directed the school plays, and drove the bus to activities and events. I have also worked in business management, traveled as a consultant, landscaped, and even given drum lessons.

P: What is your relationship with writing and how has it evolved?

D: Like all relationships, mine with writing is a messy and complicated one. I have always written with relative ease (not to be mistaken for having written well), but not to the liking of some. A college professor crucified everything I ever put to paper, and to this day I find myself fearful of what Charlie Meyer would say. A wife once berated my efforts so vehemently that I quit writing altogether for several years.

In pushing myself to improve, my OCD will kick down the door and I will agonize over and scrutinize every word or construction searching for the Holy Grail of composition. When having not written for some time, the congealed clog of ideas and thoughts become so impacted that an authorial enema ensues. Most of it gets flushed, but a few choice nuggets might cling.

P: What value does reading add to both your personal and professional life?

D: As a kid, reading allowed me that escape that everyone speaks of. I wish I had held onto it so much tighter through the years as less innocent avenues of escape were travelled. Now in the "winter of my discontent," it is once again a warm and safe place in which to retreat.

Professionally, my writing has provided prominence in every venture, especially education. Being able to "do" as well as "teach" was critical to my success. I wrote and delivered speeches for countless occasions from Veteran's Day ceremonies to National Honor Society Inductions to Commencement. My students were perennially ranked in the top of annual state assessments because they felt confident that I knew what I was doing and had their back.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures and what can we look forward to in future posts?

D: Not being a literary luminary like so many here, my current ventures are reserved exclusively for Prosers. Future posts probably wont vary greatly from previous ones - sorry. Actually, new posts may be a bit lighter as I am on new meds.

P: What do you love about Prose? Practically everything; Diverse formats and genres, creative challenges and nonjudgmental support. The pride and quality that went into the inception of Prose is evident at every turn, and invites pride and quality from our community, free from censorship.

P: Is there one book that you would recommend everybody should read before they die?

D: Nope. They have to read at least four. Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe and Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton for their humanity and its destruction. Mary Shelley's Frankenstein for its all-consuming desperation - on many levels, and Fahrenheit 451 for Bradbury's almost psychic look into a future without books.

P: Do you have an unsung hero who got you into reading and/or writing?

D: Not really - they have just always been part of me.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

D: "Life is Suffering." This is the First Noble Truth of Buddhism. All aspects of life - birth, aging, illness, union with what is displeasing, separation from what is pleasing, not getting what we want, death - is suffering, either for us or for those in our circle of influence.

The good news is that the Second Noble Truth allows us to identify the origin of our suffering and take steps to mediate it. So when taken at face value, those three words are quite bleak, they sum up my perspective of being realistic and aware of the now.

P: Is there one quote, from a writer or otherwise, that sums you up?

D: "Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." - William Shakespeare, Macbeth

P: What is your favourite music to listen to, and do you write to it?

D: I have never been able to listen to music while either reading or writing. Too much is already going on in me little ol' brainses. I do love me some Pearl Jam and Blue October, though. Fun fact: KISS was my first concert when I was around 14 and saw them again on a cruise for my 50th.

P: You climb out of a time machine into a dystopian future with no books. What do you tell them?

D: "You stupid little fucks! We knew you'd let this happen! Give me a pen - "

P: Is there anything else you’d like us to know about you/your work/social media accounts?

D: What kind of writer wouldn't want to flood the webiverse with his musings and rantings? Me. My only internet presence is right here. Not too bright, I know, but I guess I never felt worthy of taking the next steps, whatever they may be.

Thanks muchly to Dark for answering our questions. Do we need to tell you to follow if you don’t already do so, interact and like what he does? No, of course we don’t. We’re also running low on victims to feature in future Friday Features, so stop being shy and get in touch on info@theprose.com as we want to know aaaaall about you, even if that is delivered from behind a veil of anonymity (which is just fine).

You tube, my lube, Inform, my  mind

I learn, verse heard, a  prose, a sign

Iambic, I stress

No five meters here

I'll try, with no fear

To mimic the Shakespeare

Dydactic trimeteractic

Things that may not fit

We write it buzzed

The challenge was

Pull shit out of our attic

Sober I'll be tomorrow

A face with no remorse

Verse is love and sorrow

We can't deny our source!

Dear Diary,

I think I’m going to get fired soon.

It’s not my fault. Not really. I know people will try to blame me. They’ll say updating my nanobots to an unstable beta build was a stupid idea, but they’d understand if they saw the new feature list. Psy-Monitoring, Bot-Enhanced Multi-Tasking, QuickHeal, Real-Time Healthy Behavior Suggestions, FocusMode, Bot-a-Friend, DreamViewer, and a whole host of other quality of life changes? Yes, please. You can’t blame a guy for being a bit impatient to try it out.

I know I had to scroll past a lot of legal disclaimers to get to the download page and click through a bunch of warnings just to install the update, but if the company knew the beta build was that unstable it shouldn’t even have been available to the public. So, again, it’s not my fault.

HR can’t blame me for violently attacking my coworkers. I didn’t have any control when it happened. It’s not my fault that the beta version of Real-Time Healthy Behavior Suggestions are less like suggestions and more like commands. So, whenever Bot-a-Friend would ask if I wanted to share my nanobots, Real-Time Healthy Behavior Suggestions would just take control over my body and Bot-a-Friend for me.

I don’t know what my coworkers were so upset about anyway. I’m sure their wounds hurt, but their new nanobots running QuickHeal fixed all injuries within minutes. I just hope Bot-a-Friend patches in a way to spread nanobots that doesn’t involve saliva or other bodily fluids. It’s gross and my jaw’s still sore from all the biting.

And yeah, there was some lost productivity when all my newly Bot-a-Friended coworkers and I would scramble to Bot-a-Friend the next person to walk in the office, but I think it was more than made up for by the productivity gained by everyone being forced to use FocusMode and Bot-Enhanced Multi-Tasking. It’s amazing how much work you can get done when nanobots physically disable your ability to move and look away from your projects. That is some top-notch stuff there.

A pop-up just appeared. Apparently, I’ve got only ninety-nine words to go before Psy-Monitoring is satisfied. I guess I’ll just keep writing whatever people write in diaries. I’m kind of a diary novice if you couldn’t tell. I wouldn’t even be writing this if it weren’t for Real-Time Healthy Behavior Suggestions “suggesting” I write a diary entry to reduce stress and improve my mental health. It won’t let me do anything else. I can’t even raise my hand far enough to scratch the itch on my nose. It’s a bit annoying.

Anyway, only fourteen words to go. Almost there. I wonder if it’ll let me finish my

While reflecting back upon the mess that has been 2016, not only am I reminded of the utter despair and physical and mental suffering which I endured that resulted in this being —by far— the absolute worst year of my life —beyond any other— and believe me, there have been many, especially when I was married to my second ex —the disgusting vile abusing monster that he was— yet I digress; in addition to the aforementioned pain, heartbreak, sadness, and difficulties, there have been several positive aspects which I must not forget: first and foremost, the ten books —seven poetry collections, two short story collections, and my nonfiction tour de force The Downfall of American Corrections that examines how prison privatization, mandatory minimum sentences, and the abandonment of rehabilitation in favor of retribution and incapacitation have destroyed an already precarious and inefficient system— I wrote and published; my success in expanding my literary horizons beyond my printed publications to the Twittersphere where I have become addicted to hashtag games and micropoetry in addition to having penned numerous blogs not only for myself but also new clients who I have garnered via various online blogging sites and word of mouth; and my new poker buddies with whom I play several times a week are fun and have brought newfound positivity into my life.

Three friends on a road trip almost collide,

With a hot hitchhiker in the countryside.

Fabio hair,

A fine derriere,

Wholly captivated, they give him a ride.

A long drive shortened by conversation,

Along with ample overt flirtation.

He confessed he was gay,

They gasped, "No way!"

But still enjoyed their platonic vacation.