Come on, one more push!

Now I hold you in my arms.

Your cry is music.

Come now, one more try!

Shaky steps and many falls.

I will pick you up.

Bye now, one more kiss!

Bags are packed. You’re out the door.

Blink and you are grown.

Come on, one more push!

My baby holds their baby.

You hear music, too.

And now, one last breath.

Your wrinkled eyes cry for me.

We will meet again.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

New video out now, announcing the CotM winner, and the new challenge!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPVwOpUbpbk

We'll tag the winner and the other mentions below in the comments.

And

As always

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team.

Hello, Writers and Dear Readers.

Happy 2023, fam. First off, the newsletter is back on-point. Second, here's our first official vid for 2023:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=49-Zu8SLh90

And here's our Linktree:

https://linktr.ee/proseofficial?utm_source=linktree_profile_share&ltsid=8104e464-81fa-4351-9799-9d856358fd79

And

As always....

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose. team

Greetings fellow readers and writers. It’s been some time since we last updated Prose. Today we’re excited to provide a peek behind the curtains and give you a glimpse of what we’ve been working on. 

Over the years, as we’ve added features and functionality to Prose, the app and its codebase have become increasingly unwieldy. As such, we decided to reimagine and rebuild Prose from the ground up. It’s still the same site you know and love, insofar as a Toyota Camry is just as much a car as a Porsche 911. 

We’ll have more exciting announcements in the weeks to come; but for now we hope you’ll give the new site a test drive and let us know what you think. You will find the next chapter at beta.theprose.com and we encourage you to share your thoughts at info@theprose.com.

“John Wayne Gacy,” You say flatly, dropping his photo onto the desk in front of me. I don’t look at it, because I don’t need to. I’ve studied his face a thousand times. “Lived in Waterloo, Iowa,” you continue. “Beloved by his community. Good with kids. Married.”

“To Marlynn Myers,” I say. “Managed a KFC. Threw parties for his employees in his basement. Had two children, a son and a daughter. The daughter was born just four--no--six months ago.”

You lace your fingers together, leaning forward in your chair. “So why’d you kill him?”

I gaze into your eyes. They might as well be stone.

“Why did you do it?” Your voice is low, threatening. I flex my hands against the handcuffs, absentmindedly pulling the chain tight against the spot where they’re attached to the table. “August 1st, 1967, neighbors heard a gunshot and saw you flee the scene. Why did you murder him?”

“I did you a favor,” I say.

“A favor?” Your eyes turn to lava, your gaze sears me. “As far as we can tell the man never did anything wrong in his life!”

“Trust me. He would have been arrested by the Iowa police for something horrible very soon if I hadn't done anything.”

“What did he do?”

I tap my foot on the concrete floor.

“What did he do to you?”

“He didn’t do anything to me. He was never going to do anything to me. I did it to protect other people; thirty three--no, thirty four other people. Possibly thirty six.”

You study my face carefully.

“Two of them were never confirmed,” I clarify.

You look in one of your folders. You flip through the pages for a while. I tap my foot on the concrete floor to the tune of the Mario theme song. You close your folder. “Gacy has no criminal record.”

I nod.

“So who are the thirty-three people you’re referring to?”

“Timothy McCoy, Unidentified, John Butkovitch, Darrell Samson, Randall Reffett--”

“Wait,” you say, hastily scribbling their names down.

“You don’t need to do that,” I say. “You’ll find all the boys alive and well and some of them won’t even know Gacy.”

You put your pen down angrily. You pick it up again and scribble something else down. You take a small, clear bag out of your briefcase and place it on the table. Inside is a bullet. “Do you recognize this?”

“Well, obviously I don’t recognize this specific bullet. I’m assuming it’s the one I used to kill Gacy.”

“It doesn’t match any known gun.”

“Oh, ha, yeah. I usually try to buy a gun en locale, but I just didn’t have enough time this time around. It’s not an exact science, you know? A lot of guesstimating, uh, involved with it-- Can I ask you a question?”

“If you’re trying to get the insanity plea, it’s not going to work. I’ve been watching you. You’re perfectly capable of being lucid.”

I droop a little bit--I didn’t even know you’d been watching me. I must be losing my edge. I continue with my question anyway: “Do you...specialize, in this sort of stuff?”

“I’m a homicide detective.”

“No--yes--but like, do you--you must know a lot about serial killers then, right?”

Your eyes widen. “Serial killers?”

“Yes--no--I mean, I’m not a serial killer. Gacy was. Would be. I’m not. Gah!” I put my hands to my temples. The pain’s begun again. “Please not now. Anytime but now.”

“You’re not insane,” you assert again, a little less confidently.

“No, no you’re right, I’m fine. Listen to me, listen. Do you know who Jack the Ripper is?”

You shake your head.

“Or Ted Bundy?”

You shake your head again.

“What about Clementine Barnabet? Ed Gein? Harold Shipman, otherwise known as ‘Doctor Death?’ Any of those ring a bell?”

“Ed Gein is a famous cold case from about a decade ago. They never found his murderer.”

“Well, uh, that’s not the point I was trying to make. The point I was trying to make is that, where I’m from, all of those people are infamous serial killers. Some of them also have upwards of thirty victims. Like Clementine Barnabet. And Ed Gein was notoriously brutal. He would make furniture out of his victims. Furniture!”

“He didn’t do that.”

“No, you’re right, no, not here he didn’t.” The pain’s growing stronger. “Listen to me. You should be thanking me. I’ve done so much good for the world. So much. I didn’t even--” I swallow. “I didn’t even tell you all the things that I did. I did a lot of things. I saved a lot of people. But--” I close my eyes as the ringing in my ears begins. “Listen. I only have one jump left before I go completely nuts, I think. It takes--it takes a toll on my body, it takes a lot out of me, to do this. I’ve sacrificed a lot to do all this. I’ve only got one left. I can’t afford to guesstimate on this one, but I think--” I’ve reached a fever pitch, and so has the ringing in my ears. “Ever since the first time, ever since the first I’ve been having more and more trouble controlling it. These past times I’ve been getting sloppier, being off my target by days or weeks or months and--and I’m scared. That’s it. For the first time in an indeterminate amount of time I’m scared. That’s why I waited so long, to time travel again, that’s why instead of just warping away on the spot like I usually do I left, and I travelled around a bit. Came here to San Francisco. I’d always wanted to see California. Actually see it, not just be there, you know? I knew I might get arrested. But I’m scared. I’m so scared. Even though I knew it would happen eventually, I don’t want to lose myself. But it’s happening. It’s going to happen very soon.”

You don’t believe me. I can tell just by looking at your face. “Do you need a doctor?” you ask.

“No. No please, listen. I’m going to travel somewhere close. As close as I can. I’m going to try to control it as much as I can. And I want you to find me. I want you to find me and arrest me again, please. Please. I’m counting on you. I need you to find me! Okay? I need you to do this!”

Your voice sounds muffled, distant. “You’re insane.”

“I’M NOT INSANE!” I scream, but you’re already gone.

I’m standing by the ocean. The sound of the waves usually calms me, but today it doesn’t. The wind rustles the green grass that comes up close to the beach. There’s a quaint little town in the distance. I walk up the hill and find a sign welcoming me to Benicia, California. Something about that town name seems familiar, but I can’t put my finger on what.

A car comes trundling down the road. I wave at it. The driver pulls over and rolls his window down.

“Excuse me sir, what year is it?” I ask.

He looks at me over his glasses. “1968.”

I smile and thank him, then go back down to the beach.

I miss the work already. I’ve been doing it for so long. There’s nobody here to kill, and that makes me feel directionless. The only thing to do is wait for you to find me.

I don’t want it to take long. I’m already restless, and I’m already wishing I hadn’t said anything to you. I should make it easy for you to find me. I should leave you a few hints.

I go into town and buy a gun.

Fuck. There I was, in a dangerous situation, as per usual. Hedonism and responsibilities do not go hand in hand, as was being proven to me for the millionth time.

Tipsy, and a flat tire. 2 flat tires actually, with only one available spare, which of course, as the prissy suburban girl that I am, I had no idea how to put on. I had seemingly managed to run over someone’s nail collection that was left on the side of the road. I hope they didn’t want it back.

I took in the situation. It was dusk, on an empty highway, because no one else parties at 5 o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday. I had to be home soon or my dad would know I wasn’t at work, at the job I quit months ago but kept the outfit for a convenient excuse to leave the house for hours a day. It was a nice job really, but what is a teenage alcoholic supposed to do? Continue being a waitress? I don’t think so, and you don’t think so either. So I quit, and rationalized it by repeating the words “I’m only young once” and “I got to live life.”

You see where that got me.

No money for a tow, the clock was ticking for the time left of my “shift”.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This is a classic, right? Skinny blonde bitch stranded helplessly on the road. I knew, however, that this wasn’t going to end in a classic romantic kiss. The only thing this would lead to was a shitload of trouble. My dad was going to find out all the lies, search my room, put me in jail, oh my god oh my god. I was thinking about how terrible the showers in juvie will be when the hairs on my neck stood up at full attention.

A small, brownish tan Volkswagen vehicle was pulled up next to me. Like, right next to me. I instinctively pressed the lock down on my door. I groped the pocket knife in my, well, pocket. You know, the obligatory going-to-a-rave pocket knife. I squinted my eyes to see who was driving, expecting to see some ogre slightly resembling a man (mossy bald head, 2 teeth, hot breath) but, to my surprise, I saw a tan Ken doll staring back at me. Taken aback, I stared at him for a second or two, before flashing him my freshly whitened teeth. He flashed his back.

At this point I’m conflicted. Part of me is thinking, Emily, your being so stupid, this is how people get turned into coats, but then the teenage girl side of me was thinking that pretty people dont do evil things, they are always nice and friendly. Spread a little gossip and talk a little trash, maybe, but not full on kill anyone, let alone abduct people.

So, for the thrill of it (like always), I crank my window down.

“Hey.”

“Hey, what are ya doing parked all sideways on the side of the road?”

“Well, to be honest with you, I’m in a bit of a predicament.”

“Predicament, huh? Big word for a pretty girl like you.”

A feeling split between “roll up your window” and “he thinks I’m pretty.”

“I like to think I’m pretty intelligent.”

“But stuck on the side of the road?”

He was witty too. Cute, and therefore, dangerous.

“You got me there. Some asshole left a bunch of nails in the middle of the damn road, and now I’m gonna be late home.”

“Too dainty to change a flat?”

“Two flats, one spare.”

He put his hand on his scruff and stroked his sculpted chin accordingly.

“Yup, that’s quite the predicament.”

The clouds had hung low all day, threatening to fuck up my evening, and they weren’t bluffing. It started pouring, as if on cue. I started to crank my window up, but, as you could guess, the damn thing wouldn’t go up. I tried lifting it with my hands and everything, but the thing wouldn’t move. The rain started pouring in, onto my sweater and prop work pants, and I let out a shout of frustration and smacked my hand on the dash. “Dammit!”

“There’s a seat over here you know”

I had almost forgotten he was there; he felt like a fever dream. I was trying to decide if this moment was serendipitous or the opposite thereof.

“I don’t know.. This is how all horror shows start, ya know.”

“I understand, I hope you find a ride back, miss. Have a good day.”

He put his hand on the shifter.

“Wait!”

He put the car back in park and smiled at me inquisitively.

“Miss me already?”

He was good. Mid 20’s and bookish, but smug in an attractive way. I considered my options. Stay here in my car that was slowly becoming a rain collection bucket, or get in the warm Volkswagen with a handsome stranger, who could then drive me home. I could get there on time, and avoid so much trouble. And, the ultimate deciding factor; he was very, very pretty.

So what did I do? You already know.

He slid back into the drivers side to make room for me, and the leather was warm. I slammed the door shut and tried to pretend he was an ugly old man. I couldn’t let this guy woo me, as he was clearly used to. I just had to get home, and get there safely.

Things didn’t go as planned, or I wouldn’t be writing this, of course.

“It’s about 10 minutes away.”

“Your house?”

“Yes, thank you, by the way.”

“Do you live by yourself?”

Red flag? No, my mind reasoned, just small talk.

“No actually, with my dad and my little sister.”

“Staying at home for college or what?”

“No, I’m actually not in college.”

“Not going?”

“I am, just after I get through highschool.”

“Highschool. You’re still a schoolgirl? I’ll be damned, I would have bet you were 20, with a body like that.”

I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have got in.

“Thanks. It’s a right at the next stop.”

I kept the words short and cold, uninviting. Charismatic as he seemed at first, he was getting way too creepy, way too fast. I hunched forward and kept my head perfectly straight.

“I mean, really. You’re gorgeous. I love your hair. It’s so long.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s your name anyways, school girl?”

He had a smile on that once seemed inviting, that now seemed greedy.

“Emily Hankfeld. What’s yours?”

I thought maybe I could steer this conversation in a better direction.

“Theodore Bundy. But everyone calls me Ted.”

At this point, he was looking at me more than seemed safe for driving in the rain. I didn’t look back, but I could feel his eyes moving up and down, up and down, up and down.

“It’s this right up here”

He didn’t turn..

“Ted, that was the turn. You missed it.”

He pretended not to hear me.

“You know, most of the time when a handsome man picks up a stupid cunt off the side of the road, he gets more than a thanks.”

My stomach dropped. My heart stopped. He took a left onto a long gravel driveway. The only sounds that escaped my mouth were the sharp inhales and exhales I was trying to control.

“So beautiful; such a shame you’re so young.”

A glimmer of hope. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he had morals. Maybe.

“Too bad this is where it ends.”

As the car rolled to a stop, the adrenaline took full control. My mind stayed frozen while arms tried to open the door. Locked from the inside. He planned it. Hands smacking on the glass, my mouth screaming words I couldn’t hear.

“I would say I’m sorry, Emily, but I’m trying to work on my compulsive lying.”

I remember the pain in my skull as he pulled my head back by my hair. My fingers remembered the knife in my pocket.

“Don’t pull any funny business, Emily."

I screamed against his calloused hand, and he smiled. My legs kicked the air and his car.

“Careful bitch, yout gonna break the glass.”

I was running out of air, out of energy, and out of hope. All I could do was look into his eyes and hope there was some empathy in there.

There wasn’t.

I was suffocating, and he enjoyed it.

“This is your own fault you know. Didn’t your mom ever tell you not to get into cars with strangers?”

As I was giving up, fate decided not to. Someone was driving down the driveway. This caused a high level of anger from Ted, which was demonstrated by a slap in the face.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

He sighed and pushed me to the side. He put the car in reverse and pressed on the gas.

Now, I’d never hurt anyone if I didn’t have to. I cried when I accidentally stepped on our cat. I need you to understand this isnt in my nature.

He grabbed the steering wheel and I grabbed the knife.

A 3 inch blade in the jugular isn’t good news for anyone. I still remember the look in his eyes. It was clear what he was thinking:

“You bitch.”

I sat there, killer’s blood spurting onto me, and his body slumped forward unto the steering wheel. I was in shock. I still am. You can imagine the old man’s face whose driveway I’d just killed someone in when he finally made his way to us. He turned right back around. I would too.

The police were impressed by me, but to this day I wonder if he would’ve actually gone through with it. The savage look in his eyes and the tightness of his fist said yes, but who knows, maybe he was a good person. Or maybe he was going to become a world renown serial killer.

That’s giving myself too much credit, I think.

Hey guys! Quick announcement: There is now a third characters challenge! I love reading your stories, and I just picked the winner for the first one... so congratulations to @TW for a magnificent coffee shop short story! You can find their coffe shop story here: https://theprose.com/post/391470/eddy-the-incel-part-1

Thank you to everyone else who joined the first one as well:

@Danceinsilence https://theprose.com/post/387503/warsaw-poland-restauracja-polska-rozana-1-35-p-m

@HandsOfFire https://theprose.com/post/391901/coffee-beans

@MeeJong https://theprose.com/post/387140/just-cream

@TheDreamer https://theprose.com/post/386441/bus-stop

@NJDunn https://theprose.com/post/386693/best-of-friends

@AJAY9979 https://theprose.com/post/386475/coffee-with-a-shot-of-hatred

@ZBean https://theprose.com/post/390977/dayton-and-park-mystery-agency

A

l

s

o . . . If you have NOT already joined the Characters 2 challenge, the link is here for easy access *blinks innocently*: https://theprose.com/challenge/11266

I think writing is more important now than ever. Social media has made it easy to be lazy not just in our grammar and speech, but in our thinking as well. You can argue that grammar and punctuation change over time and that it's not a big deal. Though I think that it shows the lack of effort and care most people put into their opinions.

The biggest problem, in my humble opinion, is not just bad communication. It's that most people don't have any thoughts worth communicating in the first place. What makes matters worse is that these are the people who have become the most famous and the most influential.

The whole idea of writing is not just to say the first thought comes into your head. Post it on Twitter and say 'There's my answer.' The reason I write is that it is the perfect opportunity to sit quietly and reflect upon my own thoughts and believes.

Even when I go on social media and I see a comment that I don't like or a comment that sounds nice. I start writing my counter-argument or my stamp of approval. Then I pause and think, "Do I really believe that? Is this something worth arguing over? Is this the best use of my time?"

“Here you go, Garfield ass motherfucker,” said the guard as he tossed a still frozen family-sized Stouffer’s lasagna with extra meat into my cell. At least it was family-sized. He was all pissy because when he’d asked what I wanted for my last meal I said, “ayy lemme get a lasagna bippidy boppidy boo” with exaggerated hand movements. Turned out I was saying this to the one prison guard named Jimmy Strombili, and he didn’t take kindly to my cultural insensitivity.

So I took a fork to that frozen block of cheese and decided to make the most of my final joyful moments. The thought of death is so wild to me in that I would never taste lasagna again. Not a year long lasagna hiatus. Not five years. Not 100 years. Eternity. And to be fair, I was barely eating it then and there due to its frozen nature. 

I thought back to my crime with a mix of regret and apathy. There was no pathy left to give; why fight what you can’t control? I was arrested and charged when I touched MC Hammer. It turned out that his famous ‘You can’t touch this’ song wasn’t so much a boast of elusiveness but an explanation of a legally binding mandate. This, I was not aware of. Whether the punishment should be death is something to be debated by people with much more power and brains than me.

So, I just munch on frozen layers of cold and wait for it all to be over. It will be over, won’t it? Or maybe it just continues in a new way. Why hypothesize when the answer is moments away? Much of what we do is futile. Perhaps I’ll get excited about being in an exclusive group of people who know what death brings, but that is likely futile as well. Oh well, at least the lasagna was family-sized.

I flip through the sandwich, like it's an old magazine.  And then I put it down, dropping it on my tray. 

   I sigh. 

   Seriously?  It's my last meal.  You'd think they'd care enough about me to add some mayonnaise to the sandwich so I can eat the cardboard they call food, and remember my childhood with. 

   Whatever.

   Tomorrow can't come fast enough.

   Wherever I go, I hope there's mayonnaise.