Mrjdhyde
Failure is not an option. @MrJDHyde on Twitter
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Written by Mrjdhyde

How it works on prose.

How it works on theprose.com

Hi kids, welcome to a wonderful free site that has no censorship, and a weekly writing challenge for $100.

Let's start by talking about the no censorship. I mean none. They can flag your work as MA, but that's it. I myself laughed at this, thinking, “Wait until the Littles, blood boys, and paw print girls arrive. These people will learn what fucked up really means.” Unless you say otherwise, what you post is assumed to be fiction. Have fun with that.

Next, the weekly challenge. I love this, to throw down words with other writers. And it's not judged on popularity, but what the judges find worthy. So it's not the same asshole winning over and over.

There's many challenges on the site, as anyone can post one. Most have no winners, or profit they are just for fun. I love those!

At the bottom of your post you will find three buttons. A heart, a circle, and the word juice.

The heart is your basic "like" button. The cool thing about it is that by hitting heart you are not telling the world that you like it, just the writer, and those curious enough to check.

The circle button is the repost. It lets people who are not following that person to see the post. It shows up on your friends feed.

Now the juice… that's a tip jar. If someone likes your work enough they give you coins. Which is connected to your PayPal. I have asked the developers to let us pay directly with PayPal, thinking that it would cause more juice to flow. We are waiting for a reply.

Also, there's a line of dots, they allow you to edit your post, get the link to the post, and flag a post for mature content.

More buttons! If you are on a computer or desktop mode on your phone; scrolling​ through your friends feed and click a post, it will superimpose over the posts list. Then. at the top you will find more share buttons! For Twitter, Facebook, and email. We are writers, we like free publicity. Use those buttons as often as possible.

Also, if you are on desktop, you can see how many have read your words. And since this is a small site, even a small number of reads make you feel good. You will find yourself screaming, “Hit repost, motherfucker.”

I'm finding that a big draw to this site is no “most popular post” that means that there's less trolls. Because there's not an easy way to find targets. And well, I like trolls as much as I do divorce lawyers.

So I'm inviting all my writer friends to the lovely Eden. Come play, enjoy the posts, make a few of your own.  

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Written by Mrjdhyde
How it works on prose.
How it works on theprose.com
Hi kids, welcome to a wonderful free site that has no censorship, and a weekly writing challenge for $100.
Let's start by talking about the no censorship. I mean none. They can flag your work as MA, but that's it. I myself laughed at this, thinking, “Wait until the Littles, blood boys, and paw print girls arrive. These people will learn what fucked up really means.” Unless you say otherwise, what you post is assumed to be fiction. Have fun with that.
Next, the weekly challenge. I love this, to throw down words with other writers. And it's not judged on popularity, but what the judges find worthy. So it's not the same asshole winning over and over.
There's many challenges on the site, as anyone can post one. Most have no winners, or profit they are just for fun. I love those!
At the bottom of your post you will find three buttons. A heart, a circle, and the word juice.
The heart is your basic "like" button. The cool thing about it is that by hitting heart you are not telling the world that you like it, just the writer, and those curious enough to check.
The circle button is the repost. It lets people who are not following that person to see the post. It shows up on your friends feed.
Now the juice… that's a tip jar. If someone likes your work enough they give you coins. Which is connected to your PayPal. I have asked the developers to let us pay directly with PayPal, thinking that it would cause more juice to flow. We are waiting for a reply.
Also, there's a line of dots, they allow you to edit your post, get the link to the post, and flag a post for mature content.
More buttons! If you are on a computer or desktop mode on your phone; scrolling​ through your friends feed and click a post, it will superimpose over the posts list. Then. at the top you will find more share buttons! For Twitter, Facebook, and email. We are writers, we like free publicity. Use those buttons as often as possible.
Also, if you are on desktop, you can see how many have read your words. And since this is a small site, even a small number of reads make you feel good. You will find yourself screaming, “Hit repost, motherfucker.”
I'm finding that a big draw to this site is no “most popular post” that means that there's less trolls. Because there's not an easy way to find targets. And well, I like trolls as much as I do divorce lawyers.
So I'm inviting all my writer friends to the lovely Eden. Come play, enjoy the posts, make a few of your own.  
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Written by Mrjdhyde

Date night

The music is loud, making you lean to listen to each other's lies. Pretend that it's flirting. You with a dolls painted smile, ignoring his “don't let me get caught” eyes. Trying not to look at his hands, so you won't see where the ring has left its mark. He buys drinks to waste enough time so you can make believe that it's a date.

Drag each other to a motel, making excuses to why it can't be your places. Roommates​ and dirty dishes. Whiskey kisses to try building​ some lust. For a minute he's single and you are wanted.  

Then it's over as he gathers his things, already making excuses to why he may not call.

You lie there, tears in your eyes, knowing that love wasn't supposed to be like this.  

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Written by Mrjdhyde
Date night
The music is loud, making you lean to listen to each other's lies. Pretend that it's flirting. You with a dolls painted smile, ignoring his “don't let me get caught” eyes. Trying not to look at his hands, so you won't see where the ring has left its mark. He buys drinks to waste enough time so you can make believe that it's a date.
Drag each other to a motel, making excuses to why it can't be your places. Roommates​ and dirty dishes. Whiskey kisses to try building​ some lust. For a minute he's single and you are wanted.  
Then it's over as he gathers his things, already making excuses to why he may not call.
You lie there, tears in your eyes, knowing that love wasn't supposed to be like this.  
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Written by Mrjdhyde

Just to piss you off.

I didn't want to do this, I really didn't, but it's stuck in my head. And that means that it must be put on the page.

Let's start by saying that you would call me a CIS male. Which I find a bit confusing as most either call me 'James’ or ‘Hyde’. I generally wear what you would call masculine clothing. Combat boots, jeans, leather jacket. But here's the gig, I don't wear them because I am male. I do it because I am comfortable in them. If I was comfortable in a skirt, I would wear a skirt. By saying that I wear men's clothing, you are inferring that YOU think that only men wear those clothes.

Which is gender stereotyping. When you say that you are gender questioning, you are reinforcing gender stereotypes and roles. When you wear makeup, or a dress because that is what women wear, then you have just shown your thoughts on gender roles. You have told us that you think that only women should wear dresses or makeup.

I don't care what you wear. As you grow older, you will find that most people don't. Actually, you will find that most of us find your obsession with gender roles rather silly.

If someone with a vagina wants to dress as I do, try to be a big whateverthefuck you are. Don't think about whether they are dressed as a male or female.    

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Written by Mrjdhyde
Just to piss you off.
I didn't want to do this, I really didn't, but it's stuck in my head. And that means that it must be put on the page.
Let's start by saying that you would call me a CIS male. Which I find a bit confusing as most either call me 'James’ or ‘Hyde’. I generally wear what you would call masculine clothing. Combat boots, jeans, leather jacket. But here's the gig, I don't wear them because I am male. I do it because I am comfortable in them. If I was comfortable in a skirt, I would wear a skirt. By saying that I wear men's clothing, you are inferring that YOU think that only men wear those clothes.
Which is gender stereotyping. When you say that you are gender questioning, you are reinforcing gender stereotypes and roles. When you wear makeup, or a dress because that is what women wear, then you have just shown your thoughts on gender roles. You have told us that you think that only women should wear dresses or makeup.
I don't care what you wear. As you grow older, you will find that most people don't. Actually, you will find that most of us find your obsession with gender roles rather silly.
If someone with a vagina wants to dress as I do, try to be a big whateverthefuck you are. Don't think about whether they are dressed as a male or female.    
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What is home? Create a poem or a short story about home. Bring me there. Make me feel at home or not.
Written by Mrjdhyde in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Home has pee pee on the floor

Home has pee pee on the floor.

When D was maybe five years old, we had just housebroken him. It was a struggle as it is with everything. (he gets it from his mother)

He would sit and watch cartoons for hours (thank you Netflix for doing the parenting) The living room began to smell of urine. And of course we blamed the dog.

Come to find out… he didn't want to pause his cartoon. So, he began peeing behind the couch. When got caught, he denied, he blamed the dog. I didn't believe that a 120 lbs dog was sneaking behind the couch to urinate. I finally had to tell my son, “If you pee on my floor again, I will pee on your bed.”

“I don't want a pee pee bed!” He screamed.

“I don't want a pee pee floor!” I screamed back.

He never peed on my floor again. But since then I when I think of home, I think of a place where the kids have peed on the floor, and cartoons are on TV.   

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What is home? Create a poem or a short story about home. Bring me there. Make me feel at home or not.
Written by Mrjdhyde in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Home has pee pee on the floor
Home has pee pee on the floor.
When D was maybe five years old, we had just housebroken him. It was a struggle as it is with everything. (he gets it from his mother)
He would sit and watch cartoons for hours (thank you Netflix for doing the parenting) The living room began to smell of urine. And of course we blamed the dog.
Come to find out… he didn't want to pause his cartoon. So, he began peeing behind the couch. When got caught, he denied, he blamed the dog. I didn't believe that a 120 lbs dog was sneaking behind the couch to urinate. I finally had to tell my son, “If you pee on my floor again, I will pee on your bed.”
“I don't want a pee pee bed!” He screamed.
“I don't want a pee pee floor!” I screamed back.
He never peed on my floor again. But since then I when I think of home, I think of a place where the kids have peed on the floor, and cartoons are on TV.   
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Written by Mrjdhyde

Love when you get old?

Love when you're old, and crazy is different than when you're young, and wild. When I was young if the girl had an orgasm that was a amazing coincidence. Now days I've learned some Jedi shit. There is still prayer involved of course, when I was young I prayed for sex. Now I pray for an erection. Still a lot of hurrying too. Before it was because you were going to get a accidental facial. Lately it's because I could be pointing at the floor at any moment.

My views on women have changed. I used to want a girl with a hard body, a hotty. The first time I had a woman with a few years on her changed my religion. She made me scream so loud that the neighbor called the cops. They thought she was torturing a little girl. When the cops saw what was happening they just nodded, they had a milf situation before. I thought I had a stroke. Just thinking about it makes my left side go numb. Fuck yeah, if you're judged by the company you keep… give me a woman who's belly button is counted as a nipple.

Now we all know the crazy ones are the best in bed. It's cause when you're crazy everything sounds like a good idea.

But the older crazy ones… like me… not only will they do anything, but they are good at it!

When you're young and wild you will say things like, “I'm going to tie you up and break out the grape jelly!”

But when you're old and crazy…”I'm going to tie you down, break out the marmalade. Tan your ass hot enough to toast the bread for my sandwich.” And you know she's the woman for you when she hands you a spatula.   

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Written by Mrjdhyde
Love when you get old?
Love when you're old, and crazy is different than when you're young, and wild. When I was young if the girl had an orgasm that was a amazing coincidence. Now days I've learned some Jedi shit. There is still prayer involved of course, when I was young I prayed for sex. Now I pray for an erection. Still a lot of hurrying too. Before it was because you were going to get a accidental facial. Lately it's because I could be pointing at the floor at any moment.
My views on women have changed. I used to want a girl with a hard body, a hotty. The first time I had a woman with a few years on her changed my religion. She made me scream so loud that the neighbor called the cops. They thought she was torturing a little girl. When the cops saw what was happening they just nodded, they had a milf situation before. I thought I had a stroke. Just thinking about it makes my left side go numb. Fuck yeah, if you're judged by the company you keep… give me a woman who's belly button is counted as a nipple.
Now we all know the crazy ones are the best in bed. It's cause when you're crazy everything sounds like a good idea.
But the older crazy ones… like me… not only will they do anything, but they are good at it!
When you're young and wild you will say things like, “I'm going to tie you up and break out the grape jelly!”
But when you're old and crazy…”I'm going to tie you down, break out the marmalade. Tan your ass hot enough to toast the bread for my sandwich.” And you know she's the woman for you when she hands you a spatula.   
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Written by Mrjdhyde

Searching for the storm

He wished for the storm.

To wash away sins and tears,

And, yes, the years.

He needed lightning.

To help him find his way.

For the storm he prayed.

He wanted the thunder

To drown out sound

Of his own scream… so very loud.

Maybe it was the wind

for like a child he cried.

But the wind… the wind had died.  

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Written by Mrjdhyde
Searching for the storm
He wished for the storm.
To wash away sins and tears,
And, yes, the years.

He needed lightning.
To help him find his way.
For the storm he prayed.

He wanted the thunder
To drown out sound
Of his own scream… so very loud.

Maybe it was the wind
for like a child he cried.
But the wind… the wind had died.  
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Challenge of the Week #60: You have just discovered a new lifeform. Write a story of 200 words or more. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Mrjdhyde

The good son.

Father gave the call for all of us to come. Each of us put down our tools and did as he bid. I, being the oldest, stood in the place of honor next to Father. Once the last of us arrived from our duties Father looked at us with as much joy as I had ever seen from him; he said; “I know you have often wondered what the plan was for you and this place. It is time for the unveiling.”

He spread His hands and showed us. They looked like monkeys, yet they were warped in some way. Though they picked lice from each other, and grunted as the other apes, these had a bit of what my brothers and I were made. The combination of spirit, and flesh was hideous. I could see the the darkness boiling up in them already.

I looked upon Father’s face, and I saw more love than He had ever shown for my brothers. 

”Bow to them, for they are my masterpiece.” Father called out. As one, my brothers sank to their knees, heads bowed. All bowed but me.

I looked into my Father’s eyes, and defied Him for the first time.

“Why do you not bow?” my Father asked. I turned to the filthy things and stared. I did not answer, how could I? The thought of Michael on his knees before them turned my stomach. Michael still carried the scars from our battles with the Void. His once beautiful face torn, he screamed as he slept. And Father wanted my brother to kneel, to prostrate himself before these things.

I wanted to scream at Father; but I held my voice to call out to my brothers​, “Rise, you are better than these abominations. Rise and look at them. See them for what they are, each carries the Void within it. They will bring back what we fought!”

They stayed as they were. Father laid His hand upon me, “My son do not defy me. I will let this pass as you are my child; but my kindness has limits. You must do as I command, you must bow.”

But I did not bow. I turned from my Father storming from Him, I went to the barracks. Brother Michael followed to speak with me. He asked of me "Why, do you not obey?"

How do I look into his eyes to tell him that it is he that should be bowed to? Not the abominations​. They should sing songs of his bravery and strength. He was such a happy man before the wars, full of love and hope. Now, he was broken. I could not explain, not even to myself, that he and the rest that had fallen were the reason that I would never bow to the creatures.

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Challenge of the Week #60: You have just discovered a new lifeform. Write a story of 200 words or more. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Mrjdhyde
The good son.
Father gave the call for all of us to come. Each of us put down our tools and did as he bid. I, being the oldest, stood in the place of honor next to Father. Once the last of us arrived from our duties Father looked at us with as much joy as I had ever seen from him; he said; “I know you have often wondered what the plan was for you and this place. It is time for the unveiling.”
He spread His hands and showed us. They looked like monkeys, yet they were warped in some way. Though they picked lice from each other, and grunted as the other apes, these had a bit of what my brothers and I were made. The combination of spirit, and flesh was hideous. I could see the the darkness boiling up in them already.
I looked upon Father’s face, and I saw more love than He had ever shown for my brothers. 
”Bow to them, for they are my masterpiece.” Father called out. As one, my brothers sank to their knees, heads bowed. All bowed but me.
I looked into my Father’s eyes, and defied Him for the first time.
“Why do you not bow?” my Father asked. I turned to the filthy things and stared. I did not answer, how could I? The thought of Michael on his knees before them turned my stomach. Michael still carried the scars from our battles with the Void. His once beautiful face torn, he screamed as he slept. And Father wanted my brother to kneel, to prostrate himself before these things.
I wanted to scream at Father; but I held my voice to call out to my brothers​, “Rise, you are better than these abominations. Rise and look at them. See them for what they are, each carries the Void within it. They will bring back what we fought!”
They stayed as they were. Father laid His hand upon me, “My son do not defy me. I will let this pass as you are my child; but my kindness has limits. You must do as I command, you must bow.”
But I did not bow. I turned from my Father storming from Him, I went to the barracks. Brother Michael followed to speak with me. He asked of me "Why, do you not obey?"
How do I look into his eyes to tell him that it is he that should be bowed to? Not the abominations​. They should sing songs of his bravery and strength. He was such a happy man before the wars, full of love and hope. Now, he was broken. I could not explain, not even to myself, that he and the rest that had fallen were the reason that I would never bow to the creatures.
#prosechallenge  #Itslit  #getlit 
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You have a few days left to live. Only you know this. You are able to leave behind a note, letter, story or poem. It can be about anything you wish. Show us what you write. (Feel free to tag me. And by all means, don't feel that you're constrained to write something sad)
Written by Mrjdhyde in portal Fiction

My last request

Some men want I fine box,

with brass handles to show what they gots.

Others want simple pine,

Say it will suit them just fine.

But me I want a stripper to be there when I die.

.

No tears for me, no pretty lies.

Surround me with women,

With smiles in their eyes.

.

No fibs or preacher talking.

If one shows send him walking.

Pour yourself a drink,

And bellow out a song.

Remember me the way I was when I'm dead and gone.  

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You have a few days left to live. Only you know this. You are able to leave behind a note, letter, story or poem. It can be about anything you wish. Show us what you write. (Feel free to tag me. And by all means, don't feel that you're constrained to write something sad)
Written by Mrjdhyde in portal Fiction
My last request
Some men want I fine box,
with brass handles to show what they gots.
Others want simple pine,
Say it will suit them just fine.
But me I want a stripper to be there when I die.
.
No tears for me, no pretty lies.
Surround me with women,
With smiles in their eyes.
.
No fibs or preacher talking.
If one shows send him walking.
Pour yourself a drink,
And bellow out a song.
Remember me the way I was when I'm dead and gone.  
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Written by Mrjdhyde

I rage

And today I rage

I rage at everything, I look around me and I glare.  

At the people who have chained me with their expectations.

At society and its immoral morals.

I rage. I seeth. I boil at all those petty things that knick me. Like gnats of life.

I rage at the world. Yes, I do rage at the machine.

I even rage at you, dear reader, for not raging with me.

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Written by Mrjdhyde
I rage
And today I rage
I rage at everything, I look around me and I glare.  
At the people who have chained me with their expectations.
At society and its immoral morals.
I rage. I seeth. I boil at all those petty things that knick me. Like gnats of life.
I rage at the world. Yes, I do rage at the machine.
I even rage at you, dear reader, for not raging with me.
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Written by Mrjdhyde in portal Publishing

The hardest​ part of writing.

Well, my story called “Tina and Time” was turned down by another magazine, so I'm going to send it to short story oblivion (Otherwise known as Amazon) with the rest of my failures.

This is the part of writing that blows goat. You pour your heart into a story, hours of your life, then send it off to the wonderful beta readers. Edit it over and over until the beta readers eyes twitch from seeing your name in their inbox. Then off to a magazine, where it will most likely be turned down. Over and over.

But you love your little story, you can't just toss it into a trashcan. So you post it on Amazon, hoping someone will say “why not” and shell out their hard earned cash. Also hoping that they take the time after they read it to give a decent review.

It's the worst part of writing, not that they rejected you but that they didn't love your baby as much as you do.  

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Written by Mrjdhyde in portal Publishing
The hardest​ part of writing.
Well, my story called “Tina and Time” was turned down by another magazine, so I'm going to send it to short story oblivion (Otherwise known as Amazon) with the rest of my failures.
This is the part of writing that blows goat. You pour your heart into a story, hours of your life, then send it off to the wonderful beta readers. Edit it over and over until the beta readers eyes twitch from seeing your name in their inbox. Then off to a magazine, where it will most likely be turned down. Over and over.
But you love your little story, you can't just toss it into a trashcan. So you post it on Amazon, hoping someone will say “why not” and shell out their hard earned cash. Also hoping that they take the time after they read it to give a decent review.
It's the worst part of writing, not that they rejected you but that they didn't love your baby as much as you do.  
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