I've never been afraid of disaster,

nor folly, nor madness.

The spark that marks the Joker.

I'll cry tears of joy,

when there is no glee at all.

Just the nightlife of a thief.

Your death was not calculated.

It wasn't planned.

It wasn't fair.

But I am not the one

to designate,

to justify,

your personal right from wrong.

I am only here to steal.

The marble etched 

with the cold,

the neoteric,

letters of your name.

They tell me all I need to know; 

your arrival,

and your departure from this plane.

You are not lost yet, but give me time.

The earth is tenebrous and I'm scared.

That separated soil;

fresh with the tears of your father,

your mother,

your sister.

They laid a petal for each year they loved you.

Twelve.

I come out of hiding

when the sky is aphotic,

the streetlights sparkling.

When the cemetery is destitute and silent.

Your graveside is vibrant.

Your soul is quiet.

I dig.

My fingernails split and burn.

My hands make fast work of your soft dirt.

My pulse pounds.

My head aches.

My, my, my.

My, you were young...

and in a sense,

I am too.

But I am not,

the Peter Pan you thought you knew.

Your face is pale,

it's smooth,

it's still.

The laugh-lines are faint,

but still...I need you.

That animating principle.

That vivacity.

That soul.

I'm selfish in what I demand from you,

this I know.

From here, there is only one place to go.

Your skin is gelid and I feel the whimper,

the moan,

climb the back of my throat.

Your eyes open;

you stare.

I stare.

I see the panic rise behind your eyes,

and shush you before you dare.

With whispers sweet,

my voice a muted cadence,

I sing the words to take you with me,

along to your Neverland home.

"A dead sound shivers,

such a luminous heartache will end.

And all it takes,

is a little faith,

and a leap through time and space."

They call her crazy, but I think there's more to her than meets the eye.  At times she can speak clearly, she can understand what I'm talking about, she can converse with me until I feel a tiny speck of hope that maybe, possibly, this is finally getting somewhere.  But then she snaps--her eyes change, her face twists, her voice cracks, and she is back to her other self.  

It's been years since she was first brought in.  Before, she was under critical care (numerous cuts and scrapes, several bruises and scars, countless head injuries); but as she gained health, she began to wreak havoc.  That's when she got locked up.  That's when they called me in to "help" this supposed "lost cause."  That's when I found myself plunging headfirst into a pool of uncharted waters, my only lifesaver being my own sanity.

"How are you today?" I ask, sitting down in the usual metal chair.  My legs cross involuntarily, my hands clasp lightly on my lap, my lips form a soft grin.  I strain my eyes in the darkness before she scoots forward, her hair a mess, strands covering those inhumanly large, blue eyes.  She tilts her head as if she didn't hear me.  I repeat my question, not breaking away from her consistent gaze.

I begin to wonder which side I will be talking to today...

She giggles--high-pitched, crazed, psychotic.  "Better than great, greater than better.  I'm doing swell!"  Her eyes widen, her smile spreading in a psychedelic charm.  "And you? How are you?  Tell me, tell me, how are you, Doctor?"

"I'm doing well.  Thank you for asking."  I pause.  "Why is your hair like that?"

She swishes around, sending frayed curls of burnt gold to dance on top her head. "Oh, you mean this?"  Her haunting smile spreads.  "I was running very, very, very late today and fell down a well."  She looks away, eyes gazing downward, her lips frowning.  "I died when I fell.  It was very sad."  She shakes her head, sniffling, tssking her tongue.  "Yes, very sad indeed...sad indeed."

"You did not die," I intervene, "you are right here, talking with me.  It was just a dream."

At this, she snaps her hazy eyes on me, piercing through like daggers.  "It. Was. Not. A. Dream," she says, her voice like ice: cold and sharp.  

I sigh.  "Tell me more about your friends.  How are they doing?"

This seems to redirect her attention and her eyes soften back to the usual dreamy look. There's a moment of silence between the both of us: her staring into my eyes, face still and blank, eyelids blinking rhythmically; and me, staring right back at her, trying to read her expression, trying to understand what goes through that mind of hers. And then, she breaks the silence.  "Would you like to meet them?" she asks, her head tilting, her smile stretching to her eyes.

"Meet who?" I ask, cautiously checking the door to make sure the guard is still there.  He is but pays no attention to us.  I turn back and see she's become giddy, nearly jumping in her chains.

"My friends.  Would you like to meet them?" she replies, twitching and flinching.  

"Your friends are not here," I respond, switching my legs over.

Her deranged laugh returns. "Of course they are not here," she admits, giggling nervously. "At least not yet."

This makes my stomach twist.  In all the years of talking with her, she has never once spoken like this--so crazed, so insane, so utterly mad.  I want to force myself to realize that it's not her fault, that she can't help saying these demented things; but, at the same time, there's this horrible pang in my gut, and it's telling me that she likes being this way, that she enjoys it, that this is how she actually is, that if she didn't want to be like this she could just stop.  And that alone is what scares me to my core.

"Well," she urges, scooting forward, no more than three feet away from me now, and I catch a whiff of her scent: strawberry tarts and Earl Grey.  That smell--her smell--has always been profound ever since the day she walked through the doors of this asylum. It makes me sick, both of disgust and curiosity.  

"You know you are not permitted to leave the room," I inform, giving her an inquisitive look.  "How do you expect us to meet your friends if you cannot leave?"

Her lips curl behind her pearly teeth.  "You could let me out.  Just for a quick second. No, quicker than a second--no, quicker than that--it'll be just ten-sixths of a second."

"Ten-sixths of a second?"  I lift a brow.  "That is impossible."

Her boggled eyes bore into me.  "Impossibilities are just possibilities waiting to be possible.  And I know a place where the impossible are possible. I know a place where everyone is fine if my hair is like this.  I know a place where everyone is just like us."

I clear my throat.  "Not us.  Just you."

She gives me a look that sends a shiver down my spine. "You are one of us now, Doctor."

"I am not," I state firmly.

Then, there's a flash in her eyes and before I have the chance to intervene, to change the subject, to get her talking about something else, she begins to speak.  "Oh, but you are, Doctor.  Everyone, really, is like us--some just don't know it yet or refuse to believe it. It's best to just admit it, avoid the denial.  It's fine, it doesn't hurt or anything--being like us is fun.  You get to see the world in colors unimaginable; you get to see things that are both unrealistic and illogical; you begin to see that being just a little mad isn't the end of the world, just your sanity."  Her smile stretches impossibly wide, her chained hands extend toward me as if inviting me to grasp them.  "You can be like us, you can go to that place of wonder...all I need is your heart."

My throat goes dry, my heart pounds against my ribcage, my palms begin to perspire. And through it all, I can't break away from her enticing and haunting gaze.  

"What?" I whisper in disbelief.  

She points to the left of my chest.  "Your heart.  I need it."

My eyes narrow, my mouth hangs open in shock.  "Why do you need my heart?"

"As payment.  For the Red Queen, the Queen of Hearts.  I was thrown out and forbidden to return, but if I give her a heart I may be able to return."  Her mouth opens in an awful smile.  "And I do so miss that place..." 

"No."

"What?"

"No.  You cannot have my heart."

"But you are kind!  Don't kind people help others?!"

I stand up, outraged, disturbed.  My brain tries to concoct words, but I am left speechless, completely out of sentences.  I stare at her, hard, and shake my head.  "What is wrong with you?"

She switches her gaze to one of anger, a deep livid rage that contorts her face into a sinister look of insanity.  "GIVE ME YOUR HEART!  I WILL CUT IT FROM YOU, I SWEAR I WILL CUT IT OUT OF YOU WHILE YOU STILL BREATHE!  GIVE ME YOUR HEART!"  She claws at me, shaking her chains, struggling against her restraints, screaming, cursing, biting the air.    

That's when the guard comes in, followed by two others and a nurse, who stabs the chaotic mess of a girl in the neck with a needle.  She slowly slumps to the floor, curling into a ball, an awful mixture of giggling and crying emanating from her.

The guards ask if I'm alright, and the nurse advises me to leave her.  I nod absentmindedly and wait for them to walk out.  I look at her, sprawled in a mess on the cell's floor.  She mutters something, repeats it over and over, and it takes me awhile before I realize what she's saying.

"Who's coming?" I whisper, hesitantly kneeling.  She doesn't respond, so I reach out, my hand grazing the tip of her shaking shoulder.  Slowly, very slowly, she looks up, hair plastered over her white face, her large eyes peering up at me dazedly.

"They're coming...they're coming...they're coming...they're coming...they're coming...."

"Who?" I repeat, searching her face for the answer.  Nothing.  Nothing but the constant repeats of her voice.  And I become fed up.  I become annoyed.  I try, every damn day to get something out of this girl, try to fix her, try to help her, but I get nowhere.  "Alice! Who. Is. Coming?"

As if someone turned on a light in her shadowed head, her face freezes and she looks at me intently.  Her trembling lips pull apart and she speaks, "The ones likes us...they're coming...they're almost here...they're mad...oh, they are very, very mad...madder than me, Doctor...far madder than me...."

Although it's nonsense, it still manages to make me shiver at the thought of that terrifying image: of more mad people, insane psychos.

I brush the hair out of her eyes.  "Get some rest, Alice."  And I stand to leave.

"They're coming, Doctor...my friends...they're coming..."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Alice."

"You'll understand soon enough, Doctor...you'll see I wasn't lying...you'll understand everything I've said was true...truer than true...."

As I shut the door I find myself clutching over my heart, feeling foolish.  I snap out of it, fix my skirt, pull a strand of hair behind my ear, and walk down the fluorescent marbled hallway, ready to leave; but that's when an ear-piercing scream echoes down the hall.  It pulls me down the whitewashed walls and I find myself watching three nurses rush into a room where the screaming vibrates out of and then, suddenly, the screams stop and is replaced with whimpering. As the nurses exit, I catch one by the elbow, asking what happened.

"New patient.  Extremely unstable.  Was found drowning mice in boiling water and then feeding them to starving rabbits at a children's park--said he was just having a tea party." The nurse peers behind her back and makes a disgusted face.  "Psychotic freak."  And she walks away.

However, I don't follow pursuit.  I stare absently at the white door, where the whimpers continue to protrude from behind.  And then, as slowly as I can possibly make my muscles move, I step to the one-way window and look at the victim inside: a mess of a man, curled in a ball on the floor, wearing a frilly green and yellow tuxedo, and sports a rugged green top hat.  He keeps whimpering and shaking and I'm about to go in and make sure he's not having a seizure, but that's when he stops, sits up, props himself to stand, and looks right at the one-way.  It makes my heart jump, but I calm it as I realize he can't see me.

He takes a step closer.  And closer.  And closer.  Until he reaches the window, practically touching his nose to the glass.  His eyes move around and finally, as if he has X-Ray vision, lands on mine.  He smiles, almost charmingly, and tips his hat.  

"Care for a spot of tea?" he asks, giving me a wink.

As I back away from the window I can distinctly hear the unmistakable laugh of Alice, reverberating the walls of the asylum and my slowly crumbling sanity.

Hello, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

It’s week sixty-three of the Prose Challenge of the Week.

For the last week, you have been writing about a female Lucifer, and man, did you deliver. Before we check out who the deserving winner and recipient of $100 is, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:

CotW #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. The most eloquent, elegant, entertaining entry, ascertained by Prose, earns $100 and stays atop the Spotlight shelf for six straight days. Feel free to invite friends, distant family, even strange acquaintances to play this challenge with you anonymously. Please use #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.

Now, back to the winner of week sixty-two.

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the Lucifer challenge is @Delilah49 with their piece, Who is the Devil?

Congratulations! You have just won $100. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.

In the meantime, you have one week to get your write on!

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

Good Afternoon, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

It’s week fifty-eight of the Prose Challenge of the Week.

For the last week, you guys have been rewriting the creation story, and you all gave exactly what we wanted. Before we check out who is the deserving winner and the recipient of $100, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:

Challenge of the Week #58: You are a victim of injustice, write a story about it. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $150. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit

Yes! This one is for a longer duration and for more $, so get yourself writing, now!

Now, back to the winner of week fifty-seven.

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the “creation story” challenge is @madbeyond with their piece, Out of the Blue

Congratulations! You have just won $100. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.

In the meantime, you have one week to get your write on!

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

Good Afternoon, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

It’s week fifty-seven of the Prose Challenge of the Week.

For the last week, you guys have been writing about tyranny, and you all gave exactly what we wanted. Before we check out who is the deserving winner and the recipient of $100, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:

Challenge of the Week #57: you’re god; rewrite the creation story. 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

Now, back to the winner of week fifty-six.

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the “tyranny” challenge is @Harlequin with their piece, The Remedy: A Jester’s Tale.

Congratulations! You have just won $100. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.

In the meantime, you have one week to get your write on!

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

Greetings, Prosers,

It’s back. It’s Challenge of the Month.

Each month, we set you all a prompt within a Portal of our choosing. We then give you the entire duration of the challenge to create your literary splendor. After the challenge expires, the team will then take a look at specific data - number of reads, likes, reposts, and comments - along with reading the entries to ensure superior content. From there, we will choose fifteen pieces to be included in our new Prose Original Book. These books will be made up of your content, and will be sold on Prose for 500 coins. To find out whether your entry made it, you will have to grab yourself a copy.

So, what do you get in return?

If you are one of the lucky fifteen, you will receive 5% royalties for the lifetime of the book. This means non-Partners can also earn themselves some Prose coin, as anyone can enter. We think this is a new, quick, easy, and exciting way to become a published, professional author, and what better way to do that than with Prose‽

Let’s take a look at the second Challenge of the Month:

Prose Challenge of the Month #2: Write a story where you wake up as the most intelligent person on Earth. Fifteen entries will be featured in a 500-coin Prose Original Book, whereby each winner will take 5% lifetime royalties. You must purchase the book to discover its authors, who will be determined by objective data (reads, likes, reposts, comments) and by team vote to ensure reader satisfaction. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtags “itslit,” “getlit,” and “ProseChallenge.”

Write smart.

What better motivation than a brand-new challenge and a way to earn money and bragging rights when you become a professional author?

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

Good Afternoon, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

It’s week fifty-six of the Prose Challenge of the Week.

For the last two weeks, you guys have been writing about a stranger, and boy did you all deliver. Before we check out who is the lucky winner and the recipient of $200, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:

Challenge of the Week #56: Write the beginning of a story about a tyrannical king who threatens the entire realm. 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

Now, back to the winner of week fifty-five.

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the “stranger” challenge is @dobbyness3 with their piece Thanatos.

Congratulations! You have just won $200. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.

In the meantime Prosers, you have one week to get your write on!

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

Morning, Prosers,

We interrupt your usual Prosing schedule to bring you news of our latest feature update.

As of right now, we have implemented a feature in which ALL Prosers can earn coins.

All posts now have a new button. Juice. This Juice button allows fellow Prosers to tip your words. Have you ever read a piece and thought, “Damn, that’s good?” Well now, when you do, you can show your appreciation above and beyond a like or a comment, and send them some Juice.

Prosers can donate between 10 and 10,000 coins per post to the author. Authors receive 80% royalties which will be deposited straight into the wallet of said author.

Received donations can be viewed in the “Sales History” tab on the website.

This feature is currently only available on the website. However, we are working on bringing this to iOS as we speak. Remember, you can spend your coins on both platforms, but you can only buy coins on the web. 

Once we have updated the iOS version to reflect the Juice button, push notifications to alert you of kind donations will be active.

We will also be adding a Juice button to profiles in the not-so-distant future.

Not only this, but we have also banished a number of pesky bugs too. Be gone, and good riddance!

We are working on a number of new things to keep us busy, but as always, if something isn’t working how it should be or if you have any questions, get in touch with us. We are always happy to help!

Until next time, Prosers,

Get Juicing.

Prose. 

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.