Dear Dapper Dandy de Dariot Damien,

Determining dangerous death-dates dares distracted damsels to destructively destroy delicate, dainty dandelions in desolate December deserts. Do dark detours decide difficult dialogue or do desperate dictators displace disguised dilemma? Damn, decent defense deliciously delivers deep doubts, dozen by dozen. Drink this drastic dream! Defeat this designed democracy of denial! Dwarf this dwindling dweller! Does documentation document doers or do dysfunctional do-gooders dynamically deteriorate damaged documents? Demure details defy deaths to diametrically, directly disappoint dichotomous distinctions. Don’t dolly, dear - that distressed dinner distracts. Domestic dominance deludes dramatic, duplicitous duals. Damned doltish divinity!! Death doesn’t deliriously draw - the dead decidedly defeat dirty death. Durable damsels of dryness destructively destroy dandelions, but decisively dote on deliberating daffodils.

Devotedly,

Duke Demetrius Don Davidson Dabrowski

Searching since she strayed, a sad, simple, solitary swan swims south. Stroke. Stroke. Swimming straight, she slips, splashes, surprising small surface skippers.

Secretively, something sinister spies. Surrounded sticks and stems shroud staring slits. Should she stay still? Strike? Silently, she swoops swiftly. Swipe. Splash. She successfully snags supper.

I love her.

More than life itself.

But I can’t have her.

Not because she doesn’t love me, too,

But because our love is forbidden.

They refuse support or freedom.

I am a nature girl. Always have been. Without sounding insensitive or flippant, I have often declared that I would make a good homeless person and as I look at what I just wrote, I realize that there is no way to make that statement and not sound insensitive and flippant. Don't get me wrong. I am very thankful for my humble abode (which I have worked hard for) and my warm bed every night, especially on a cold night, but give me any excuse on any given day, all seasons (begrudgingly less in winter), and I'd rather be outdoors. I don't understand people that would rather be indoors, and perhaps those same people don't understand me.

So what is it that annoys me? People that don't respect common ear space when they are outdoors. In my neighborhood, at the beach, anywhere. You might enjoy KIIS FM or your station of choice on Pandora, but why do I have to be forced to listen to it when all I want to do is be at one with nature sounds; the breeze, the birds and the buzz of the bees while I read and write or do anything else or nothing? With all the wireless buds out there, you mean to tell me you can't personalize your choice of entertainment by keeping it to yourself?

I have never been diagnosed, but I'm pretty sure I have some form of ADD, because as soon as I hear unsolicited music, I lose all focus. And although I prefer silence, I love music, but only when I choose to listen to it. Obviously, I can see this makes me sound like a control freak. Truthfully, I really don't understand why something this trivial bothers me so much! Yes, I do know there are much bigger problems in the world. And oddly if I hear power tools, dogs barking, children playing, none of that bothers me, it's only unsolicited music that makes me nuts. What's wrong with me??

I buy these foam ear plugs and when the need arises I wear them along with noise cancelling headphones on top of them feeling so silly in the utter silence thinking this just doesn't make any sense. Shouldn't the person choosing to listen to music be wearing the headphones?

And I have gone so far as to drop comments about my love of silence to the biggest offender of my aversion, the neighbor that lives behind me. Something tells he will play his radio prouder and louder if I push the issue, so I do not, would not nag him over this. I just remain grateful for the days he is not around. He's really not a bad person, and I am aware he has also worked hard for his humble abode and it's his yard, his airspace, and I just have to remember to put my big girl pants on and deal with it, when he presses play.

There is this intimacy that happens for writers, this magic that takes place between our innermost thoughts and the assemblance of words into prose.

When we hold that magic inside the words take up meaningless space, they wither and then they die. If we are unable to fill that void, we are left in a state of longing and despair.

Writing on Prose fills that void. There are no rejection letters here on prose, just like minded individuals of all ages, most often anonymous, happy to share their creativity and camaraderie.

For us, I believe prose is more than a hobby or entertainment. It is an opportunity to get to know our true selves, while we get to know one another in a safe place.

Let's call us one big happy family and leave off the word dysfunctional.

We've got enough of that on the flip side.

Bigfoot tore the last of the meat from a deer leg and enjoyed the seared meat. He always kept his wood stick fire small so he could eliminate it quickly. Oh my, humans again. Big foot morphed into a tree.

"Mommy, can we camp here?" A little boy could be heard close by.

"I think we should stay near the toilets and water, don't you Bill?' mother said to her husband.

"OK chicken lady, let's set up the tent." Bill said, secretly feeling insecure about camping himself. He remembered his older parents often saying they would pray for the family's protection.

The boy and his parents needed the great outdoors. Little Oliver's parents decided that city life was crushing their souls. They were sure that embracing nature would revive them.

Bigfoot watched as little Oliver searched for frogs and chased butterflies. He could smell the little human. It was pure and pleasant to him although not in the sense of food. He could smell his heart and innocence. The adult humans smelled a little stale as if they were once as fresh.

Bigfoot morphed again, this time into a caterpillar on a leaf near Oliver. It was illuminated by a sunbeam. Oliver immediately allowed the fuzzy worm to roam his little fingers before gently replacing it onto the leaf.

Nightfall arrived. "Critters" of all sorts were hunting, building homes and socializing.

Bigfoot now spying as a blade of grass, thought it strange how the adult humans fell silent and still but not the boy.

Oliver crawled out from between his parents and left the tent. The ground was wet and soft from an earlier rain. The barefoot child dressed in pajamas wondered past a picnic table to the woods edge. He could see the tent shrouding his sleeping parents and the faint glow of a night light inside. He listened to the sounds of the night. He could see the shiny stars through tree tops. Oliver pulled fresh air into his lungs. This atmosphere made him think about how much he wanted to "be good" somehow.

Bigfoot returned to his legendary state leaving his footprint in the moist soil just outside of the sleeping parent’s tent. He crept into the woods keeping silent so as not to frighten the little human.

Oliver saw a large snarling cat poised to attack him! He ran for the tent as the determined cat pounced and chased after him. All of the sudden Bigfoot swatted his mighty hand upon the side of the cat rolling it off into a briar patch.

The boy tripped and fell into the imprint of a huge apelike foot and was knocked into a daze. He could faintly see tree limbs being sucked into the woods before losing consciousness.

"Bill!" his panicked mother yelled out from inside the tent. “Where is Oliver!”

Bill shifted as the morning light and her voice alerted him to wake up.

His father Bill flew open the tent door and discovered the unharmed boy nestled inside the evidence of the legendary Bigfoot.

Title: The Magic and Secrets of Bigfoot

Genre: Children's stories

Age range: 7-11

Word count: 523

Author name: Della

Why good fit: Great campfire story with kids

Hook: Early suspense

Synopsis: Family goes camping, boy saved by mystical creature from the dangers of the night while learning that a "monster" can have a heart.

Target audiance: Bedtime story or library story for kids.

Della's Bio: Raised all over country (military brat), great parents, nursing school after HS, two kids, one long and two short marriages, grown kids, single.

Platform: I do not use Facebook any longer, no website; I have limited knowledge of technical computer things. I'm well known at work and I think very liked and respected.

I am looking for an agent who will represent me.

Education: Associate of Science and tons of required continuing ed.

Real Estate, history of voice and dance lessons, karate, gun safety, art.

Experience: Self published "Some of Life's Kettle Corn." I have material for a more "Adult", "Some of Life's Trail Mix." I've written several eulogies, a song for a hospital, retirement letters for hospital, a published "Letter to the Editor," hospital policy and procedures, job descriptions. One You Tube video (it got taken down--my adult kids pressured me). Modeling in past. Lead singer of HS garage band, Transmission.

Personality: Fun loving, intelligent. I sometimes leave people wondering if I'm really stupid or too smart for my own good. I'm a charge nurse in a psychiatric facility.

I love to laugh and have a tendency towards beer.

Writing Style: I admire Mark Twain's style. I am simplistic but like to try out new words. I forever make improvements and have learned to love editors. With no formal education in poetry, I love to write it as well.

Likes/Hobbies: Swimming, my cats, writing, yard work, politics.

Hometown: Texas

“Mary-Kate’s dead,” Elizabeth’s mother had glanced up from her Southern Living magazine only once to deliver the news.

The words echoed through her head while she closed the fridge door in shock, forgetting about breakfast altogether.

“How?”

“Suicide,” her mother barely moved, just a wisp of hair uncurling around her bony finger, so she could flip a glossy page.

Elizabeth could have fainted from one word. The blue tiles would have been hard, but it was harder to take in the weight of that statement. Mary-Kate, her closest friend from kindergarten to tenth grade had killed herself. The realization hit her like a ton of bricks, and Elizabeth could only nod slowly, take in the information, and start running.

Years of cross country prepared her for the long-distance sprint past the courthouse and down the backstretch that led to the Harris house. The walls were a faded cream color, and nobody had been around for upkeep in nearly fifteen years. Some gnarled shrubs and oak trees guarded the pathway to the old farmhouse that Elizabeth had spent hours exploring and playing in. The roses were drooping in the afternoon heat, but they seemed to perk up at the arrival of an old friend.

It was a familiar journey, the stroll to the front porch, but it only made her heart hurt. Nobody ran out to greet her or offer cookies. Mary-Kate was not there anymore to do so, Elizabeth reminded herself. The sunlight was too bright and her head too filled with questions, so she directed her gaze at the faded welcome mat five yards away.

Mrs. Harris, a plump-around-the-middle woman, was beautiful in the old days, she liked to remind guests. The house was filled to the brim with wedding albums and framed photos of her teenage self. Even without her wavy blonde hair, it was easy to notice the weary yet pretty facets of her. For instance, the crows feet perched beside her eyes did nothing to hide the beauty of her crystal orbs. Her legs had once paraded across town parties and fancy galas, but now, they were resigned to standing before the sink and washing dishes. Nonetheless, though her good looks had all but faded, Mrs. Harris was kind to all. However, many agreed she did a bit too much talking when they called upon her.

“Hello, love!” She would exclaim whenever Mary-Kate would drag Elizabeth home. “Lemme fix y’all some snacks. You like pie? I got apple an’ cherry. Mebbe a little peach cobbler.”

They would all gorge themselves upon delicious treats and watch television in the den. That was before high school, before elementary school when Mary-Kate still had space in her whirlwind life for Elizabeth. That was back when they wore their hair in pigtails and went to church on Sundays. That was when Mary-Kate did not sneak off in the middle of the night to go places she had no business going to. That was when Elizabeth was a best friend, not an afterthought.

This time, Elizabeth pushed the heavy door with paint chipping off until she had a clear view of the hallway. Nothing had changed since the last time she had seen it, a year ago. The carpet still had that one stain shaped like an elephant, and all the windows were shrouded by hideous brown curtains that Mary-Kate’s aunt had gifted them one Christmas. If she checked, Elizabeth was certain there would still be a crack in the wall behind the door that had been formed when she was eight, and the girls played baseball in the house.

She found Mrs. Harris in the Florida room, nursing a cup of honeyed tea.

“Oh, hello, darlin’. I ne’er saw you come in. Did you h-hear the news?” The woman almost broke down.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m really sorry to hear about...everything.”

“Jus’ her time, I suppose.”

Elizabeth forgot why she had come and felt out of place. It was almost frightening to see the woman she had looked up to as a mother so frail and listless.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Mrs. Harris pondered, “No, dear, I’m ‘fraid there ain’t. Well, maybe if you wanna go up t’ her room. There’s a couple boxes of things you can have. Her jewelry if you want it. That’s ’bout all.”

“Okay, I’ll be around if you need anything.”

The mahogany staircase was dark and smelled damp, but it was the gateway to Mary-Kate’s bedroom, the place the girls spent many a weekend curled in pink sheets, telling stories, and playing dolls. It was silly to come here, Elizabeth rolled her eyes when she ascended to the landing, Mary-Kate is dead, and nothing can prove otherwise.

“Do I even want her back?” She whispered, fiddling with her sleeve.

A hollow thud sounded when Elizabeth’s right foot hit the hardwood floors. Pushing the plain white door open, she flicked the light switch on, casting a pale yellow glow over the room.

Unlike the rest of the house, the bedroom was entirely different from last summer. The posters of celebrities had been replaced by beautiful paintings that Mary-Kate probably made herself. Every piece of furniture had been rearranged or was missing. The bed was perfectly made, as if a person had not inhabited it for sixteen years.

“Why’d you have to do this, Mary-Kate?” Elizabeth groaned, sliding to the carpeted ground.

The white jewelry box was still placed haphazardly beside the dresser, the latch broken and hanging lifelessly. She crawled forward to inspect the assortment inside. The first string she pulled belonged to a pearl necklace with a gold clasp that Elizabeth remembered gifting her for Christmas when they were ten. She had saved money and called in favors to buy the necklace, and it warmed her heart that her old friend had placed it at the top.

Her laptop was on the edge of the bed, white and adorned with stickers of glittery rainbows and funny phrases. Elizabeth held back a snort because it was so undeniably like Mary-Kate to decorate her computer.

In the corner, she noticed the medium sized trunk that had once held dolls, puzzles, and dress-up clothes. Elizabeth heaved the lid until she could see clearly inside. The first thing she found was a Little Mermaid doll with curly red hair and a tattered green tail. Around the left ankle, a slip of paper was tied with a ribbon. It read, “Look on the dresser. Under the shell.”

Elizabeth complied with the instructions, a tad confused, and inspected underneath the clam where she found another paper that asked her to name the date they met, add a zero, and type it in as the password to the laptop.

“July 26th, 2008,” she did not have to think since the day was also Mary-Kate’s birthday.

Eyes wide, Elizabeth wondered if this was a good idea. Mary-Kate was never a particularly private person, always reading her diary entries aloud as practice for school plays, but it felt wrong to look into her computer. No, Elizabeth, she told herself, Mary-Kate is dead, and maybe this will explain why did it. This could be a good thing for everyone, just do it.

With a little hesitance, she sat cross legged on the cotton candy blue bedspread and opened the laptop. Slowly typing in the code, 726080, Elizabeth waited for the loading symbol to disappear. The wallpaper popped up a second later, a beautiful sunset shot through a greenhouse roof, but that was not what caught her eye first. Instead, she was drawn to the only folder available that was labeled For Elizabeth Mae.

“You’ve done it now.” Elizabeth slammed her forehead into her hand. “You messed up. Now you have to click on it, great job.”

She closed her eyes briefly to prepare for whatever her old friend had in store before clicking on the icon.

“Hey, Lizzie.” The video Mary-Kate took a deep breath. “You’re watching this because I’m dead. There’s no way a-around that, so I’ll just say it now. I’m sorry I treated you so badly for the last year, and I can’t make up for that. But I know how much you like Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie so why don’t we play one last game?”

The screen went blank, and all Elizabeth saw was herself. She searched her features, her furrowed brows, chapped lips, puffy, sorrowful eyes, and high cheekbones, and pretended to know what Mary-Kate meant. Surely the girl had not killed herself for a simple apology or a child’s game. One last game, she thought, what could that possibly mean? And was she ready to play?

---------

Title: Love, Mary-Kate

Author Pseudonym: S.E. Noelle

Genre: YA fiction, mystery

Age Range: 12-28

Target Audience: young people

---------

- This project deals with mental health and grief. Readers will see parts of themselves in a wide selection of characters and be able to relate to them while also becoming enthralled by the plot.

- Elizabeth is determined to solve the supposed suicide of her former best friend, Mary-Kate. To do so, she will uncover deep secrets about the town of Belmont. She follows a trail of video messages, letters, and emails that leads her from Kentucky to New York City and back to rural Virginia. She has one question, does anyone really know who Mary-Kate was?

---------

About me:

My name is Sadie. I live in Virginia and enjoy reading, writing, painting, and solving puzzles. I will be attending school as a ninth grader this fall. In the past four years, I have won five creative writing contests, three essay contests, and was named seventh grade valedictorian. When I write, I am enthusiastic and dedeicated to finsihing. My style is influenced by poetry and mythology, but I mostly take inspiration from the classics.

Normal people:

1. Pick a reference (or go from memory if they're just that amazing)

2. Outline whatever they're drawing

3. Start shading

4. Add color or finish it up

5. Done!

Me:

1. Picks a reference (I am not good enough to go from memory)

2. Watch YouTube for an hour because picking a reference was very draining

3. Outlines half the drawing

4. Another half hour of YouTube

5. Outlines the other half

6. Runs downstairs for a snack

7. Goes back upstairs holding half the pantry, eats and watches some more YouTube

8. Shades a little bit

9. Downloads a random video game on my phone

10. Shades some more *almost tears the paper because I'm so mad at my incompetent drawing skills*

11. More YouTube

12. Finishes shading

13. More YouTube

14. Final touches *flips drawing over so I don't have to look at my horrible artwork*

Hello, friends of Prose. I am working on a book for Nano and I am planning on publishing it on KDP. I know this chapter is very long, but if you get the time to read and give some feedback it would be much appreciated. I would love to hear your views on the story, the formatting, the punctuation, wording or whatever. If you’d like to comment it here you can, or if you’d rather tell me personally in an email, you can send it to OssandraWhite@gmail.com. Thank you so much for all your help! God bless you. <3

Link:

https://theprose.com/post/368005/chapter-one-troubled-beginnings

I was looking for contests. I have been writing since I was able to, but my mom didn't want me to enter my work into any contest because she didn't want anyone to "steal" my work. So, when I became eighteen, I realized that I was no longer restricted by this rule. She didn't discourage me, but she warned that if anyone "stole" my ideas, I shouldn't come crying back to her.

Well, the idea of someone "stealing" my ideas isn't TOO FAR FETCHED, but it was kinda absurd. How else will I share my work with the world? She wanted me to copyright everything first. But copyrighting costs money. Plus, I (being the perfectionist that I am) didn't want to copyright a lot of halfway done pieces and random whacky words that hardly make sense with no context. And, I have several stories in my head that aren't quite written down, and the ones that I've begun to write are nowhere near completion. I am constantly editing them, so how much money would I be out of trying to copyright it all?

Now, my mom means well, and I understand her concern, but I believe that the benefits of sharing outweigh the cons. So, I went on a kick where I was entering every single writing contest I could find. And, in my search of these, I came across a site that mentioned theprose.com. They advertised monthly contests with cash prizes. That's why I arrived. But, when I got here, I discovered an awesome community of writers. I discovered that the just-because contests were just as or even more fulfilling than the ones that offered prizes. I discovered a place where I could read awesome things by others, and I could share my own work.

I stood by for a while not posting anything. But, when I finally decided to post something, I just couldn't stop.

I'm so happy I found this place!