The Leyland cypress are my cover. I hear they have a short life span. What will I do if they fail and decay, die, and then fail me?

When the moon is bright, I do not dare go out and watch them. Things can be seen under the moonlight, like naked lovers on the beach and the crabs searching for a return to safety like me when I pull up my comforter and adjust my pillow until it is just right helping me to avoid my chant. "Sleep. Tired. Sleep. Tired…."

What is it I desire to see in the house behind me? Sex? No. I can get that porno style and no one is the wiser other than if I decide to murder someone or commit a lesser crime and the powers at be decide it is in their best interest to do their thing and search my internet history. Unlikely.

No. I am not a criminal. Or am I? Because I have heard them and seen them without their knowledge. The foreigners that live behind me observed at all hours of the day and night. Foreign because I do not understand a family that says, "What do you think love?" In a tone that expresses such kindness and patience that….can it be? Is it even possible?

It is a cloudy night, safe for me to peep, and I watch them pass the popcorn and laugh through their window. Maybe when I go back inside I can figure out what they were watching on TV. Maybe not. Does it matter?

"Step right up! Step right up!"

He yells four nights a week. The other two nights we usually travel. Long stretches of highway. Cornfields. So many cornfields.

"Step right up and see the greatest traveling side show still around!"

He wears a bright red suit with a shiny cape and a tall tophat. When crowds are low he pulls a flask from his pocket. When crowds are plentiful he stands on a box to shout over the din.

"Control the freak! See what she can do! The most flexible woman alive! Step right up!"

The long cables attached to my binds feed through a series of pulleys terminating in four wooden handles.

"A live marionette! Control the freak! Make her dance! Make her stretch! Make her moooooove!"

He always puts a foul twist on the last word, often winking at a potential male customer when he says it.

Money is paid. An eager-looking group of young men enter my tent. I lay on the floor, still, sprawled, crumpled and waiting to be controlled. They take the handles to my cables and pull me to a standing position. They get four minutes, unless they paid the premium rate, but I doubt these young men know to ask for the available extras.

They spin me around and around, make me jump, bow, twist, and convulse. I am their's. Their puppet. Their entertainment. Their slave. They have the cables, the power, the control.

Outside, the yelling continues. More people line up, waiting their turn to be my master.

Maybe it isn't right. Maybe it is. Maybe it's more common than you think. Maybe it's you.

“His testing or your desire? Let’s talk about this, because it’s important to know the difference. God doesn’t test anyone.

You’re here because of your own desires. You kept an extra copy of my apartment key. You sneaked in while I was sleeping..You crawled into my bed.

I know that you’re religious and like to go to church and whatever, but you came to me. I did not force you here. ‘...everyone who sins is a slave to sin…’ Right? Isn’t that a scripture that you showed me once, back in the beginning when you first moved in?

Clearly you’re a slave to your own desires. Why else would you be here without my invitation? I asked you to move out because you were hyper-religeous. I didn’t appreciate you trying to shove the bible down my throat. At first, I was more than willing to listen. Generally speaking, I am open-minded, but you were overbearing.

Now you’re back. I don’t get it. What’s your game?

Anyway, just so that we’re clear, the apartment next door is used as an office, so there won’t be anyone along until Monday. That gives us three days. Oh, and the family at the other side of the hall is away on vacation. They asked me to feed their cat, Misty, for the next week and a half.

Tears? Mmm, salty. In about half an hour more I’ll be back. The sleeping medication should kick in and I, we can start having fun.

Let’s loosen the strap around your mouth. I’ll pull the ball out and give you a chance to speak. If you yell, I’ll insert this 12 inch vibrator so deep inside of you, it will have to be surgically removed. You brought this on yourself. By the way, how are you liking the nipple clamps? Here we go!”

“No, please…”

The World Writers Day is celebrated annually on March 3 since 1986. It was established by the International Congress of PEN Club. 

   The International PEN Club is a worldwide association of writers founded in London in 1921, in order to promote friendship and intellectual support among writers from all the corners of the world. The name for the organization was created from the first letters of the words “Poets, Essayists and Novelists,” but indeed it includes writers of all the forms of literature, including journalists and historians.

   The idea to create such organization belongs to the English writer Mrs. C.A. Dawson Scott and its first president was John Galsworthy. Nowadays the International PEN Club has its centers in over 130 countries. The International PEN Club is the oldest global literary organization that emphasizes the role of literature in the development of the world culture, fighting for the liberty of expression...

Sun dips evening’s essence

In her honey colored light

Amber effervescence

Draws long shadows ’fore the night

Resting on a bed of waves

Tide‘s sonnets sing to sleep

Her pulse slows and perfusion fades

Death nears as colors weep

Star’s lost luminescence;

Sky’s curtain’s drawn to veil:

Her rising, Dawn of Radiance —

Eternally, she dwells

Stifling. Stretching, still somehow stagnant. Simply sulking. Stop.

There. Triumphs, treasons - thrice thought. Tumbling through time, thrashing to try to

rest. Restless, relentless, reoccurring. Returning raging, rioting, real revenge. Resistance - 

endless. Empty. Enormous empire, ending eons evaded. Ever-evolving, ever earning

streaming straits, simmering sweat, stilled shivers, silenced shock. Still stifled.

Struggling. Staggering. Standing. Stranded, striving some serenity. Staying ~

to fight another day.

I may have cheated by looking at a few of your posts, but I liked them so I couldn't stop reading them. I'd say you're young. You were on Wattpad (oh, Wattpad!) so definitely under sixteen, probably thirteen. There are no fanfics that I found so you're either branching out or never did them or just haven't written any yet (there's a time for anything). I think the normal guesses for your last name are probably Gupta or Patel or maybe Singh, but last names are soo cool because they can be anything! It's awesome. I'm a nerd. Anyway, I think you either live in Canada or the U.K. Though India is tempting. I mean, there are so many people that it's hard for that not to be the first guess. America is also an idea, so I'd guess if you did, you lived in the South or in California because there are a LOT of brown people around those parts.

I am pretty sure I got a lot of these wrong, but nonetheless, welcome to Prose! I hope you find it is a LOT better than Wattpad. Believe me, you'll look back at your account in five years and say, "The hell was I doing?" I know that from experience. I hope you love it here!

Man always makes mistakes. Sometimes, bad days come. But friends help us. I also made a mistake. I admit it. I want to be a valued member of theprose.com. Would you like me to join you? Do you still communicate with me? I apologize to everyone. I returned. Please don't disappoint me! @FiaA, don't be upset with me either!

I'm in a bad situation right now. Understand this! My fantasy is out of place! I am excited! I want to join you again! So will you be my friend? Let me know in the comment! I will not be disappointed! I'm ready to hear any word you say! I'll be quiet now...