Even when I first met you, alight with music and alive with liquor, you were a hot mess of epic proportions. That day, I ignored it, and I fell in love with you anyway. For the next six months, I tried to convince myself otherwise. Every night that you stumbled home with alcohol on your breath and a shrinking wallet, I told myself that it was temporary. Every day that you skipped out on your job and went out to gamble instead, I drowned myself in a pretty mirage, trying to shove away the unpleasant, unwanted truth.

That you would never change.

That that was just who you were.

And still, even when I’d come to terms with the ugliness of the fact when you completely forgot about our six month anniversary, I denied it, with every fiber of my being. Because I loved you, and you loved me.

I thought, for some naive, ridiculous reason, that our love would fix you.

That’s why I waited six more months. As the flame between us grew and grew, I was so sure that the fire would eat away your sins and raise you once more from the ashes. Even when all the signs pointed left, I waited. The one year anniversary was your second chance, your opportunity to redeem yourself.

You probably don’t even remember it because of how hungover you were, but I do. You screwed up your second chance even more surely than you did your first.

That was when I realized it. I couldn’t waste any more time on someone who was broken. I couldn’t waste anymore time on someone who didn’t want to be fixed.

So I broke up with you. And although I’d kept a straight face the entire time, know that inside, I could feel something shriveling up and dying.

In the end, you called me selfish for leaving you. 

Maybe I was.

I don’t think I was.

Because darling, if love couldn’t fix you, then I hope the pain did.

We've been best friends for years before you finally told me how you felt. 

We've been a couple for two years before you told me about how your feelings for me changed, how the love vanished and how the spark died down. We didn't break up though. Not right away at least. 

You loved someone else, you already did for a while but tried to hide those feelings, even from yourself. When they told you that they suddenly wanted to be with you, there was no holding back. You left without looking back, unmindful of my feelings and enjoying your new life. At first only for some days but we still lived together so you had to come back eventually. When you did you told me about how happy they made you and that you two even slept together. We broke up not even 2 weeks before that. You expected me to be happy with this, because I always said "I'm happy as long as you are." How dumb of me to think you would interpret it like this.

I was there for you, through every up and down for the past 8 years, always there to catch you when you fall. They let you stumble and crash to the floor, even while laughing at you but you still loved them more. I helped you up, they kept you down. When you left the city and started to replace me with other, better people while I begged you to stay and talk to me, I remembered what you said in the night of the break up.

"I'm sorry, but this is how it is. This is not your fault, this is entirely me."

And I couldn't agree on anything else more with you than this.

The first steps are, and have always been

the hardest.

The second steps come with wavering 

heartbeats,

but with solid, strong, stomps.

The third steps are fleeting, accompanied by

an empty mind,

and upon the fourth,

you may notice that your feet are no longer

on the ground. 

God the Father compels you.

God the Son compels you.

God the Holy Ghost compels you.

God to all martyrs and the pious compels you.

The blood of Christ compels you......

The Holy water scored her moldering flesh yet the demon defiantly gnashed her rotting, green teeth and fired her eyes at the exhausted priest.

'Is that the best you got father?' she growled in a hollow rasp.

Father Timothy refused to be swayed.

'By what name are you called, demon?'

'I have been known by many names over thousands of years father. From Abraxas to Zaza and countless in between. At the time of the black plague I was called Danag, I was known as Tanic through the crusades and during the holocaust - Bachbakuala Nuksiwae but father, I come to you as Cheryl.’

The priest’s eyes widened as he took a backward step. ’ Cheryl, in the name of God the father and the holy trinity leave now, the body of his beloved servant Heather. In his name I cast you back into the fires of hell.'

The room shook with the violence of the demon’s will.

Demonic eyes blazed with blinding yellow light, illuminating the gloom of the interior as she expelled a guttural howl that caused furniture and oddments to cascade in a ferocious whirlpool. Father Timothy raised both arms to shield his face but maintained his gaze on the grinning entity. After what seemed like an eternity all motion abruptly ceased - the room’s contents hung suspended in mid air as if captured in a stuttered frame of a ghostly snapshot.

The priest had barely caught his breath when at the next moment the air seemed to explode throwing all against the floor and walls of the bedroom, splintering and shattering in a dramatic crescendo.

Father Timothy had been engaged under orders from the Vatican to carry out the exorcism after Heather had been pronounced 'possessed' following a two month investigation by the Catholic church, he had traveled across six states to attend.

The priest was a seasoned veteran of sixteen prior exorcisms, his most infamous case was some 6 years back, that of a mid western socialite named Julia Upton.

Upton was possessed by 34 separate demons which she had summoned, through a Ouija board at a party. The father conducted sixty three separate sessions over a period of ten months and had eliminated all but one of the entities. The demon known as Baal.

Before he could extract the demon, Upton died of starvation. Her family took the church to court but a deal was struck betwen the Church and the family.

Father Timothy was given a year off while the dust settled.

Cheryl’s arms and legs were bound in heavy chains around the bedposts. She raised her crusty, pock marked face and glared deeply into the eyes of Father Timothy.

'You look worn out priest, maybe you need some fresh air' She quipped.

The bed hit him hard in the midriff.

Glass and wood shattered in all directions as he toppled backwards through the third story window.

Father Timothy's body hit the concrete of the driveway with a dull thud.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Charles finally summoned the courage to raise his head. He was slouched between the mahogany wardrobe and the bedroom door as he could barely look at the bizarre and horrifying events as they had unfolded.

The priest had met his match with Cheryl and now with him gone Charles felt overcome with unfettered fear and raw volubility.

His eyes were slowly starting to focus as the settling dust cleared to reveal the devastated landscape of his bedroom, the bedroom he had shared with his wife Heather.

As with the rest of the house, Heather had agonized for months, scrutinizing and selecting the most correct furniture, paint colors, bed linen, scatter cushions, throw rugs etc.

The room had been an aesthetic manifestation of Heather’s preciseness and love of the classical.

There was no warmth in her coordinations or the spareness of her decor. Most of the time Charles had felt guilty for allowing himself to sit or lounge anywhere in the house.

As he surveyed the rubble and remnants left over from the demon’s destruction he almost felt a relief that he hadn’t been the one to cause it.

Charles gazed upon the possessed body of his wife of 26 years, chained to their bed - she was sitting upright, her head cocked to one one side with smoke billowing from matted hair. She was looking quizzically and playfully at the disheveled man, as he gingerly brushed debris from his plaid dressing gown in an self conscious attempt to regain his composure. With a shaking index finger he pushed his black rimmed glasses to the bridge of his nose and wiped a strand of peppered hair from his forehead.

He could barely maintain his gaze as he felt the demon's yellow irises burning holes into his flesh.

'Hey Chucky why don't ya’ll come over here and sit with me a spell darlin’?' She cooed in an exaggerated Georgian accent.

'But....Heather....’

'Heathers not here Charles. Just little ol' Cheryl, besides I'm infinitely more interesting than your frumpy, asshat of a wife.’

He was frozen - melded to the floor but the jello of his flesh was now hers to command. Charles remained frozen as the mass of his body was lifted into the air and thrown brutally against the foot of the bed.

'Thats my boy' as she motioned beside her.

Charles slid involuntarily to the spot.

'You wanna know a little secret Charlie horse?' As she flicked back an oily wisp of smoldering hair.

‘My name isn’t really Cheryl. Do you really imagine that a demon as powerful as I would be known as Cheryl?’ She scoffed.

‘No Charles, that was for comedic value only.’

‘Just a little diversion, a little inside joke between me and the Priest.’

‘You see, in his first posting, Father Timothy had a sexual relationship with a married woman named Cheryl Turner.’

‘The good father ended up having a twinge of conscious well into it and pulled the pin on it. Cheryl killed herself, leaving behind a husband and three children and the priest confessed his sins and moved on.’

‘My only purpose here today was a reconciliation. A balancing of the books if you will.’

‘The death of that priest was my only motivation for inhabiting your ridiculous wife and now my work here is complete.’

‘Having said that, do you want to know something else Charles?’

Charles had barely processed anything the demon had said but upon hearing his name let out a muted ‘ehh’.

'Nothing gets my black juices pumping quite like a good exorcism and right now Cheryl has a hellfire in the hole that only mortal meat can quell'

He looked into the vacuum of her pus filled eyes as all semblance of free will deserted him.

Charles found himself straddling the demon her eyes laughing as her flaking, colorless lips pouted, cooing as she thrust her pelvis into him as he mounted her.

His cock burned hard against her squirming form with pre cum oozing to wet his pajama pants.

Charles gave himself over to his mistress as he lowered himself and laid his head against her breasts, heaving under the dirty pastel house dress. Her heart barely beating yet her body a quivering current of raw power and pulsing nerve endings.

‘Please remove me dress guv’nor’ She spoke in a cockney accent.. ’

Charles dutifully started to unbutton the dress only to be reprimanded.

‘Fookin’ rip it off ya stupid coont!’ Cheryl bellowed like a Welsh miner.

He tore the dress from top to bottom, exposing her grey, dying skin. Her ribs were almost sticking through decaying flesh and her breast like empty sacks falling away from her.

‘Now lick me Charles, I want you to lick me good, I’m a very, very dirty girl.’

He worked from her neck, manufacturing saliva as his tongue was ripped by the coarseness of her dry pores - the metallic taste of her burnt his mouth yet his hunger grew.

Tracing down her collar bone he rested for a moment as he again laid his head against her chest.

With a hand wrapped around each breast, Charles made a beeline down to her belly with his tongue.

He inserted the tip of it into her navel as Cheryl arched and moaned.

‘Your talents were wasted on that frumpy twat muppet Charlie, you certainly know your geography. Now park it downtown boyo’

He traced a line to a matted clump of pubic hair. Parting her lips with his fingers he worked his tongue inside the demon’s cooch flicking and exploring.

The stench and taste of her overcame him. Cheryl was squirting herself into his mouth as Charles gagged and choked on the bile.

As if in empathy Cheryl beckoned him upright. Charles undid the buttons of his pants. His angry erection leapt towards her gaping cunt.

'Fuck me to hell'

'Fuck me to hell'

'Fuck me to hell'

'Fuck me to hell'

He nosed the head of his penis into her wet hole. The heat from her overpowering him, yet he instantaneously thrust deep inside.

Cheryl cackled and spurred him on as he lost even more control.

It was all a blur to him. Visions of animalistic gratification overtook him. Visions of death and squalor controlled his every response. Charles’ body chimed in symphony to the demon’s insatiable will.

The shaft of his penis glistened golden red as his plunged it deeply into the demon’s being.

His pettiness dissolved into her marrow.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of feeding Cheryl's insatiable lust, her tongue oozed from it's grotesque lodgings, slithering the distance between them to bury itself into Charles' watering, gaping mouth.

He exploded his seed with massive force into the beckoning Succubus.

The last thing he remembered was the cackling laughter as she arched her back in thunderous release.

Charles was thrown off her immediately, his head hit the bedpost.

Losing consciousness he fell into the deepest of sleeps.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

'Charles.......Charles.......wake up.'

'Whats happening and why am I chained to the bed?'

'Answer me Charles!'

'Charles!!'

He stirred into semiconsciousness.

'Cheryl..........I........'

'Cheryl???!!!'

'Who's Cheryl you bastard??!!'

'Charles, who is Cheryl???'

'I don’t know’

Charles stared into the confused and angry eyes of his wife as he fought to regain his senses.

'Answer me Charles..... and what in God's name is that green slime doing all over your face?'

With a newfound stillness he spoke.

'I guess we are now left with only two options Heather.'

'Either a divorce or a Ouija board.'

'Are you mad Charles? What are you talking about? Whats going on and what happened to my bedroom?'

'But quite frankly dear, I'm leaning more toward the Ouija.' He grinned.

'Charles I have no idea what you are on about or who this Cheryl person is but.....'

He reached a hand into his shorts. The demon's juice was still moist upon his cock.

Charles took the glistening tip of his forefinger and encircled Heather's mouth with it.

With lips pursed he whispered into her ear 'shhhh'

The woody smell of juniper. Bright green needles drape off the branches shooting out from the gnarled, twisted bark of the trunk. The tree looks wise and ancient, solitary in this inhabitable desert landscape. Its berries sprung up after a recent spring rain and they contrast against the tree like water on a globe. At first glance, I think they're droplets leftover from the storm. The brown-grey-white-green-blue tree stands above the fiery red earth, the Navajo sandstone, and rises up from the mesa. It overlooks the desolate valley, and watches life come and go. It's withstood heat and droughts that killed other plants, animals, and even humans. It's survived wind, lightning, and hail and it's fed jackrabbits, coyotes, and birds. It thrives in this place of extremes, and gives, and lives on. I can't pinpoint what it is I find so intriguing about this tree, but it's enchanted me with its eternal presence, its invincibility, its resistance. I begin to feel the heat, the need for water and shade. I am not adapted to the environment in the precise way that the juniper is and I reluctantly leave, but the tree remains on that plateau, resiliently grown out of the rocks, above the valley forever under the wide open sky. 

Asleep on the toilet. Napping while crapping. An unexpected rest session of an unsanitary nature.

Those are the only ways I can fathom to try to describe what I was watching through the bottom of the door.

You see, I had to use the bathroom after an exam, and so I asked my teacher for permission. I entered the bathroom, found the stall locked. I wondered who was stuck there, and when they were going to come out.

I asked once, "hey, how long 'till you come out?"

No response. I asked again. No response, again.

"You know, people tend to respond where they're asked a question. Rude!"

No response.

So, I looked under the door. And I saw it all. His arms were hanging downwards, in tragic harmony with his unsightly, unbuttoned pants. His shirt covered down there, thankfully. In fact, it only covered down there because his entire body was arched downwards. Gravity had pulled it into that position. Gravity, by the way, was discovered by Isaac Newton.

In other cases, like when planets orbit around stars, gravity is useful and harmless.

In this case, gravity made him curve like an ostrich hiding in its hole. That image permanently harmed me psychologically. It's a miracle I don't go to counseling because of it.

I decided to wake him up. He had to get to class, I imagined, and frankly putting him out of his suffering was the best thing I could do. I found a conveniently misplaced broom by the sink, removed the brush, and started to poke him. Poke, poke, poke. No response.

Poke, poke, poke. No response.

POKE, SHOVE, STAB. He woke up.

“Huh?”

The first thing he saw was the broom. And at that moment, he knew he was both literally and figuratively in deep shit. He asked me how long it had been—twenty minutes, I reckoned—and then thanked me, pulled his pants up, buttoned his buttons to hide his underwear, and left.

The poor guy was so embarrassed he forgot to wash his hands and flush. He came back when he saw the soiled toilet paper, stuck to his hands like this entire twenty-minute fiasco. I, meanwhile, was laughing uncontrollably at the entire ordeal. I told everyone I knew, and they laughed, too. We told the legend of the napper-crapper for years, and we still tell it today. Even the napper-crapper started laughing about it. A diabolically funny aspect of us humans is that we laugh at other people's embarrassment. However, I don't think it's all that bad when the embarrassed join in the fun. It's almost like comedy communism, except it doesn't end with millions dead or in gulags.

That being said, I’m sure some of you will doubt that this really happened. “There’s no way that this could happen to anyone!” And sure, it seems so embarrassing and stupid and silly you’d think someone made it up. But it is all true.

Except for one bit.

You see, you can’t tell an experience when you were asleep during most of it. One can only write so many “ZZZ” before the reader shuts off their brain, and leaves to some better-crafted story. But, for the witness, this experience was hilarious. So, I swapped the witness with the crapper-napper in order to write about it, and share  the joy with everyone. Like Jesus in the new testament, but without all the blood and gore and death that preceded him in the old testament.

I was not the witness. I was that poor crapper-napper.

Hello, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

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

For the last week, you have been writing a twisted tale, 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 #64: Write about the most hilarious thing you have ever witnessed. 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 #ProseChallenge #itslit for sharing online.

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

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the Twisted Tale challenge is @jwelker76 with their piece, Until Morning.

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.

It’s Friday again. HUZZAH! Of course, this means that we delve into the life of another member of this great writing community of ours. This week we head over to California to meet the very splendid @istoppedtrying

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

I: My name is William and my Prose name is @istoppedtrying.

P: Where do you live?

I: Palo Alto, California.

P: What is your occupation?

I: I am a middle school student braving math tests, structured essays and the social perils of stereotypes.

Writing, (on Prose), is the highlight of my day.

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

I: My relationship with writing began with reading as it did for many others. I became entranced with the crude honesty of Cowper and the meaning packed poetry of T.S. Eliot.

I've been reading more and more contemporary poetry as the months go on and the poetry I write has reflected what I read.

I have used writing as a coping tool and as a boat for my "literary exploration."

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

I: Reading adds another depth to literature that I can't achieve through writing exclusively. Street signs and advertisements have a new importance to me.

The most nondescript parts of our society suddenly have so much meaning to me.

P: Can you describe your current literary ventures?

I: Possibly some more books (collections of poetry, I don't have the stamina to write a full-length book) and similar individual posts to those I write now.

P: What do you love about Prose?

I: Prose is positive. Though many writers (including me) write about sadness and negativity, the overall vibe of Prose is positive.

This level of opposition creates a desire for me to never stop writing.

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

I: The Dream Songs by John Berryman is the most gruesome and vivid anthology of confessional poetry that has ever been written, in my opinion.

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

I: I had an English teacher in second grade who saw something "different" in me and allowed me to write a poem instead of a paragraph about The Little Engine that Could.

I've been writing ever since.

P: Describe yourself in three words!

I: Idiosyncratic. Evanescent. Ignorant.

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

I: I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. -Winston Churchill

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

I: I am a growing fan of alternative, electronic and folktronica music. I write to the latter daily, simmering in the abstract and strange.

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

I: Is there a rock and some mud around?

No mud?

My blood will do...

P: Do you have a favourite place to read and write?

I: I find darkness and silence to produce some of my freshest ideas. If silence isn't possible, white noise will do.

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

I: I have a speech impediment. I practically cannot pronounce the "r" sound. It began when I was five and has continued, unabated to this day.

This is why I prefer writing to public speaking.

A thousand thanks to William for opening up to us and sharing his life. You know what you’ve got to do now. Follow. Like. Love. Interact. Do the Prose thang. Meanwhile, get in touch if you want to nominate someone, even if it’s yourself. 

Do it on paul@theprose.com or info@theprose.com

1 E N V Y

stretch my neck and scream at god:

"i'll tear you to shreds before i am gone!"

"jealousy, jealousy, fuck you all!"

"kiss on you, piss on you"- farther I fall.

2 G L U T T O N Y

eat your sins and eat your pride

stuff your feelings, quiet your lies

i deserve the beef, the bourbon, the bait.

donations for me, the starving will wait.

3 G R E E D

owe me for being around your dumb flock

for my kindness, quiet and poison sweet talk

i deserve your world, sour liquor and rum

it's never enough; i am queen, you are scum

4 L U S T

hold me close and tell me lies

i'm beautiful and you'll stay with my for life

lick, kick, tumble, tap

screw me; "SCREW YOU!"call it a wrap

5 P R I D E

stick me with your words

"i like it! it burns!"

destroy me, enjoy me, you can't change facts

you can't kill what i don't even have

6 S L O T H

run yourself ragged across hot broken glass

i laugh and scowl while sitting on my ass

stupid, boring; you do what you're told

let me lie, let me die; writhing in the cold

7 W R A T H

i hate you for the horns, tail and regrets

the pain running through hands, foot, chest

it grows, i shrink, i soak in your mad test

insanity!! profanity!! fuck it all, bullets for breakfast.