Zoelise
I really don't have any idea for a bio... I guess that is kind of a bad thing for a writer ;).
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Write a sexy haiku - can be subtle or hot, hot, hot!
Written by Zoelise in portal Haiku

Locked In

Hail Pours Down,

Roof Caves In Dropping Snow Mounds,

Guess We're Locked In

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Write a sexy haiku - can be subtle or hot, hot, hot!
Written by Zoelise in portal Haiku
Locked In
Hail Pours Down,
Roof Caves In Dropping Snow Mounds,
Guess We're Locked In
#romance 
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Write a work of prose/poetry about the coming of Springtime, but here's the catch: you can't use the letter 'S'
Written by Zoelise

Blooming Will Begin

New Air,

Gentle Wind,

Goodbye Winter,

Blooming will begin,

Watch the rain dropping,

Pitter-Plop-Plopping,

Light on fencing,

Offering radiant youth,

One-hundred heat in no-time,

Bring out the blow-up pool,

Equinox to come in only many a few day,

Goodbye February,

March, come what May.

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Write a work of prose/poetry about the coming of Springtime, but here's the catch: you can't use the letter 'S'
Written by Zoelise
Blooming Will Begin
New Air,
Gentle Wind,
Goodbye Winter,
Blooming will begin,
Watch the rain dropping,
Pitter-Plop-Plopping,
Light on fencing,
Offering radiant youth,
One-hundred heat in no-time,
Bring out the blow-up pool,
Equinox to come in only many a few day,
Goodbye February,
March, come what May.
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Write a paragraph or two with vivid descriptions and leave me hanging and dying to find out what happens next. I will do one too! Maximum 250 words. Tag me!
Written by Zoelise

Guilty.

Fear shook the body of a young Alaana Melaine as she fidgeted in the wooden chair of the courtroom. Her brown-doe eyes glanced behind her to her family sitting in the pew. Their faces reminded the teenager to sit proudly in her chair. She had never wanted to do what she had done; but she had to. And that's where the jury came into play. It was no mystery that the 13 year-old had shot and killed Mr. Andrew Finnegan. The man had ambushed her house with a gun, ready to take lives in return for treasure (Alaana's family was barely middle class). The child's family had been downstairs when ambushed ; she watched the man enter the house from her room; avoiding family super due to a stomach ache. She saw the gun in his hand and the adrenaline had kicked in. There was no time to warn; she ran to the gun safe and frantically entered the code. Her father was a retired army general, so she knew what to do in an emergency. She took the handgun and sprinted downstairs. The girl had screamed at the man to get away from her family. He pointed his weapon at the mother, evil enlightening his face. Alaana shut her eyes and squeezed the trigger. We was dead. She saw it as self defense, but others refer to it as murder in the first degree. The girl snapped back to the harsh reality..." The jury finds the defendant..."

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Write a paragraph or two with vivid descriptions and leave me hanging and dying to find out what happens next. I will do one too! Maximum 250 words. Tag me!
Written by Zoelise
Guilty.
Fear shook the body of a young Alaana Melaine as she fidgeted in the wooden chair of the courtroom. Her brown-doe eyes glanced behind her to her family sitting in the pew. Their faces reminded the teenager to sit proudly in her chair. She had never wanted to do what she had done; but she had to. And that's where the jury came into play. It was no mystery that the 13 year-old had shot and killed Mr. Andrew Finnegan. The man had ambushed her house with a gun, ready to take lives in return for treasure (Alaana's family was barely middle class). The child's family had been downstairs when ambushed ; she watched the man enter the house from her room; avoiding family super due to a stomach ache. She saw the gun in his hand and the adrenaline had kicked in. There was no time to warn; she ran to the gun safe and frantically entered the code. Her father was a retired army general, so she knew what to do in an emergency. She took the handgun and sprinted downstairs. The girl had screamed at the man to get away from her family. He pointed his weapon at the mother, evil enlightening his face. Alaana shut her eyes and squeezed the trigger. We was dead. She saw it as self defense, but others refer to it as murder in the first degree. The girl snapped back to the harsh reality..." The jury finds the defendant..."
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Write a Rhyming Poem using homonyms...have fun with this challenge and feel free to tag me @Zoelise
Written by Zoelise

Howard Would Have Been Eight

She sat down at the kitchen table, but there was nothing she ate,

Wiping stray tears, today Howard would have been eight,

She missed his little body curled beside her; all the books they read,

She missed his mischievous smile when his hands were stained strawberry ice-cream red,

Howard was always so selfless, the last out in a fire auger,

He always had this mature air to him, a young partings augur,

Despite her lack of hunger she went and grabbed some cereal from the pantry bin,

Frosted Flakes brushed her hand, those were what Howard's favorite had been,

She laughed at the thought of her baby, he always said he'd add more sugar if he was on the "cereal council",

How upsetting it was that she was now the one seeking counsel,

He was just a sweet young boy, every night by his bed he'd pray,

Such a sweet young boy, a drunk driver's prey,

She felt all alone on the morning February 12 of 2014, but she knew she was not,

The fact that 1,149 parents of kids under the age of fourteen were going through that same first birthday without their baby this year, left her stomach in a knot.

~every time you drink and drive you risk tearing apart a family, don't take that risk~

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Write a Rhyming Poem using homonyms...have fun with this challenge and feel free to tag me @Zoelise
Written by Zoelise
Howard Would Have Been Eight
She sat down at the kitchen table, but there was nothing she ate,

Wiping stray tears, today Howard would have been eight,

She missed his little body curled beside her; all the books they read,

She missed his mischievous smile when his hands were stained strawberry ice-cream red,

Howard was always so selfless, the last out in a fire auger,

He always had this mature air to him, a young partings augur,

Despite her lack of hunger she went and grabbed some cereal from the pantry bin,

Frosted Flakes brushed her hand, those were what Howard's favorite had been,

She laughed at the thought of her baby, he always said he'd add more sugar if he was on the "cereal council",

How upsetting it was that she was now the one seeking counsel,

He was just a sweet young boy, every night by his bed he'd pray,

Such a sweet young boy, a drunk driver's prey,

She felt all alone on the morning February 12 of 2014, but she knew she was not,

The fact that 1,149 parents of kids under the age of fourteen were going through that same first birthday without their baby this year, left her stomach in a knot.



~every time you drink and drive you risk tearing apart a family, don't take that risk~
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You've just won a recording-setting lottery...what do you do next? 150 coins for the most inventive non-rhyming response.
Written by Zoelise

But It Bought The Alcohol

"Hello?"

"Lily...Lily it's your momma. Baby girl I'm so sorry.  I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I--I never should have given you up so easily." 

Sobs shake my body. I'd spent most of my life an addict with not a dollar more than what could pay for the next bottle of wine. Knocked up at sixteen, my daughter Lily lived under my drunken rage. Fall of '09 the state came and took her. She'd just turned 11.

"Listen baby, I never should've turned to the bottle, I should've  have reached out. Baby girl listen-- I won the lottery. Baby, I'm gonna come and visit, see what a beautiful young woman you've become. Baby--" 

A loud distance cuts through the line. Disconnected. Money might have had bought all the alcohol I desired back in the day, but it couldn't buy the one thing I wanted most: Lily's forgiveness.

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You've just won a recording-setting lottery...what do you do next? 150 coins for the most inventive non-rhyming response.
Written by Zoelise
But It Bought The Alcohol
"Hello?"

"Lily...Lily it's your momma. Baby girl I'm so sorry.  I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I--I never should have given you up so easily." 

Sobs shake my body. I'd spent most of my life an addict with not a dollar more than what could pay for the next bottle of wine. Knocked up at sixteen, my daughter Lily lived under my drunken rage. Fall of '09 the state came and took her. She'd just turned 11.

"Listen baby, I never should've turned to the bottle, I should've  have reached out. Baby girl listen-- I won the lottery. Baby, I'm gonna come and visit, see what a beautiful young woman you've become. Baby--" 

A loud distance cuts through the line. Disconnected. Money might have had bought all the alcohol I desired back in the day, but it couldn't buy the one thing I wanted most: Lily's forgiveness.
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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
Written by Zoelise

Hand-Rolled Cigarette

      I looked at Ryke as he handed me the rolled up paper. The dark green color was seeping from inside, brown flakes of happiness toying with my nose. I could feel my eyes dilate in my head as I looked at the shredded mixture, up until that point I had been a drug virgin. As for the parties, I knew my way around those, but I personally was more of a liquor guy. Anyways, there I stood, hand-rolled cigarette with God knows what in the middle, one of the girls, Masie I think it was, tossed me a lighter. A simple spark and crushed relief caressed my lips. I could feel a whole new dimension coming upon me. I started laughing as the magic powder worked its way through my veins. Freedom, happiness, insensibility, panic. Panic. All of a sudden I could feel something was wrong. My lungs started to constrict; I couldn't breathe. Sweat trickled down my acne-covered forehead despite the cold Nebraska night, the room fell black and I started to seize. Shaking violently pain pounding fear surrounding, then quiet. Stillness. I was dead. I remember looking down on all my stoned friends, they were too high to notice something was really wrong; too drunk to risk calling an ambulance. Maybe it would have helped, maybe not. There was no point wondering now; I was just a dead boy on a stoner's floor. Ryke, Masie, and all the other losers had played with the Devil's powder many times before, with nothing but a headache in return, and yet I'm the one who's mom has to hear her honor's list, church going, baseball playing, little boy overdosed.  They get to go on living their lives, the chance to grow up and start families, get a job that pays more than minimum wage, graduate college. But because of one bad hand-rolled cigarette I'll never get to step foot on Earth again.

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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
Written by Zoelise
Hand-Rolled Cigarette
      I looked at Ryke as he handed me the rolled up paper. The dark green color was seeping from inside, brown flakes of happiness toying with my nose. I could feel my eyes dilate in my head as I looked at the shredded mixture, up until that point I had been a drug virgin. As for the parties, I knew my way around those, but I personally was more of a liquor guy. Anyways, there I stood, hand-rolled cigarette with God knows what in the middle, one of the girls, Masie I think it was, tossed me a lighter. A simple spark and crushed relief caressed my lips. I could feel a whole new dimension coming upon me. I started laughing as the magic powder worked its way through my veins. Freedom, happiness, insensibility, panic. Panic. All of a sudden I could feel something was wrong. My lungs started to constrict; I couldn't breathe. Sweat trickled down my acne-covered forehead despite the cold Nebraska night, the room fell black and I started to seize. Shaking violently pain pounding fear surrounding, then quiet. Stillness. I was dead. I remember looking down on all my stoned friends, they were too high to notice something was really wrong; too drunk to risk calling an ambulance. Maybe it would have helped, maybe not. There was no point wondering now; I was just a dead boy on a stoner's floor. Ryke, Masie, and all the other losers had played with the Devil's powder many times before, with nothing but a headache in return, and yet I'm the one who's mom has to hear her honor's list, church going, baseball playing, little boy overdosed.  They get to go on living their lives, the chance to grow up and start families, get a job that pays more than minimum wage, graduate college. But because of one bad hand-rolled cigarette I'll never get to step foot on Earth again.
#fiction  #horror  #politics 
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"How quick these unsent letters accumulate!" Write with this theme. Tag with #draftFull. Tag me at the comments section so I can read, k?
Written by Zoelise in portal Stream of Consciousness

My Mom Was Helping Me Clean Out My Nightstand...

      I remember being quite the goody-two shoes in Elementary school. In fact I once won a stuffed animal at the end of the school year for having the least amount of "X" marks in my second grade class. Anyways, there was this one day in third grade where we had out the glockenspiels and xylophones in class, now I never disobeyed the rules, but I just couldn't help myself from messing with the musical masterpiece that sat in front of me, and it probably didn't help that the teacher was talking when I did that. We were sitting on the floor, so I couldn't exactly shrink down into my desk when she called out my name in front of the entire class. I became so red as twin with Bob the Tomato. I even served more than my given punishment just to show how guilty I was (we had a fake money system that we could use to buy classroom goods like the all-time favorite no-homework pass). Despite my overly-generous donation, I still felt like I needed to do more. I went home that afternoon and pend out a wonderful detailed letter of apology to my music teacher. It was the perfect plan, except for the fact that I chickened out and decided not to give her the letter after all. A couple weeks later my mom was helping me clean out my nightstand, and happened to come across the letter. I may have conveniently forgot to mention the troublesome act the afternoon it happened, but she sure knew about it then. We then proceeded to have a fun talk about respecting authority and following directions.

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"How quick these unsent letters accumulate!" Write with this theme. Tag with #draftFull. Tag me at the comments section so I can read, k?
Written by Zoelise in portal Stream of Consciousness
My Mom Was Helping Me Clean Out My Nightstand...
      I remember being quite the goody-two shoes in Elementary school. In fact I once won a stuffed animal at the end of the school year for having the least amount of "X" marks in my second grade class. Anyways, there was this one day in third grade where we had out the glockenspiels and xylophones in class, now I never disobeyed the rules, but I just couldn't help myself from messing with the musical masterpiece that sat in front of me, and it probably didn't help that the teacher was talking when I did that. We were sitting on the floor, so I couldn't exactly shrink down into my desk when she called out my name in front of the entire class. I became so red as twin with Bob the Tomato. I even served more than my given punishment just to show how guilty I was (we had a fake money system that we could use to buy classroom goods like the all-time favorite no-homework pass). Despite my overly-generous donation, I still felt like I needed to do more. I went home that afternoon and pend out a wonderful detailed letter of apology to my music teacher. It was the perfect plan, except for the fact that I chickened out and decided not to give her the letter after all. A couple weeks later my mom was helping me clean out my nightstand, and happened to come across the letter. I may have conveniently forgot to mention the troublesome act the afternoon it happened, but she sure knew about it then. We then proceeded to have a fun talk about respecting authority and following directions.
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Love is overrated; write something about hate.
Written by Zoelise

I Hate Hate

I hate hate.

I wish hate would disappear.

I hate how this world only revolves around fear.

I hate hate.

I hate how everyone is expected to life happily ever after.

I hate how 50% of marriages end in disaster.

I hate hate.

I hate how the word crawls under my skin.

I hate how in America we're taught it docent matter unless you win.

I hate hate.

I hate how to get my point across I have to rant.

I hate how impossible dreams are never met with the word can't.

I hate hate.

I hate how you have to hate to know love.

I hate hate, but maybe it's a twisted gift from above.

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Love is overrated; write something about hate.
Written by Zoelise
I Hate Hate
I hate hate.
I wish hate would disappear.
I hate how this world only revolves around fear.
I hate hate.
I hate how everyone is expected to life happily ever after.
I hate how 50% of marriages end in disaster.
I hate hate.
I hate how the word crawls under my skin.
I hate how in America we're taught it docent matter unless you win.
I hate hate.
I hate how to get my point across I have to rant.
I hate how impossible dreams are never met with the word can't.
I hate hate.
I hate how you have to hate to know love.
I hate hate, but maybe it's a twisted gift from above.

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To the best of your ability, tell us which would you choose or which one is better - A broken heart or An empty one! If you will, please include the 'Why'. #BrokenOrEmpty Tag me, if you want!! Happy writing, y'all :)
Written by Zoelise in portal Micropoetry

Be Empty/ Feel Nothing

Be empty;

Do not understand all.

Feel nothing;

Is only to build a wall.

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To the best of your ability, tell us which would you choose or which one is better - A broken heart or An empty one! If you will, please include the 'Why'. #BrokenOrEmpty Tag me, if you want!! Happy writing, y'all :)
Written by Zoelise in portal Micropoetry
Be Empty/ Feel Nothing
Be empty;
Do not understand all.
Feel nothing;
Is only to build a wall.
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I got this idea from a poetry workshop I went to yesterday: Write a poem about what your words do. "My words change" or "My words never lie" for example. Make it as creative as you want! And tag me @LiberalPoet.
Written by Zoelise in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Diagnosis

She can not feel.

She can not emphasize.

She can not understand why her husband looks at her with empty eyes.

She is not a vegetable.

She is not a freak.

She does not understand why it is such a sin to be unique.

She will not change.

She will not view herself as something atrocious.

She will not think any less of herself because of a diagnosis.

She may not look at the world the same.

She may not understand why you get mad.

She may not accept that it is okay to be sad.

She should not have to be looked down on.

She should not have to deal with being labeled.

She should not have to constantly be judged by people who only see her as disabled.

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I got this idea from a poetry workshop I went to yesterday: Write a poem about what your words do. "My words change" or "My words never lie" for example. Make it as creative as you want! And tag me @LiberalPoet.
Written by Zoelise in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Diagnosis
She can not feel.
She can not emphasize.
She can not understand why her husband looks at her with empty eyes.

She is not a vegetable.
She is not a freak.
She does not understand why it is such a sin to be unique.

She will not change.
She will not view herself as something atrocious.
She will not think any less of herself because of a diagnosis.

She may not look at the world the same.
She may not understand why you get mad.
She may not accept that it is okay to be sad.

She should not have to be looked down on.
She should not have to deal with being labeled.
She should not have to constantly be judged by people who only see her as disabled.
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