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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 Andrometa

Why Am I This Way?

Sit down little boy, sit down little girl,

Sit down there on your stool

All this glitter and that faggot twirl

Is why you’re bullied at school.

Sit up straight, unnatural child

Don’t wallow there so glum

I hate that you’re my grandchild

You’re asking for it, are you dumb?

So what do you think caused it?

Was it something you decided?

I don’t understand why you don’t just quit

God help you, you’re misguided.

Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve

Didn’t you read the bible?

Two men together can’t conceive

And a mother and father is vital.

No, never again will we kiss,

I can’t believe you’re gay

I’ve raised you, my son, better than this

You’ve been led astray.

Hey, I’m not homophobic dude,

I have gay friends don’t you know?

But, look, I don’t mean to be rude

Can you keep your distance?…no homo.

Can you guys just stop flaunting?

Can you keep it out of my face?

Think of the children that you’re haunting

There’s a fuckin’ time and place.

Is it just to make the victim wrong?

And let accusers have their say?

While someone who feels they don't belong

Thinks, ‘Why am I this way?’

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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 Andrometa
Why Am I This Way?
Sit down little boy, sit down little girl,
Sit down there on your stool
All this glitter and that faggot twirl
Is why you’re bullied at school.

Sit up straight, unnatural child
Don’t wallow there so glum
I hate that you’re my grandchild
You’re asking for it, are you dumb?

So what do you think caused it?
Was it something you decided?
I don’t understand why you don’t just quit
God help you, you’re misguided.

Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve
Didn’t you read the bible?
Two men together can’t conceive
And a mother and father is vital.

No, never again will we kiss,
I can’t believe you’re gay
I’ve raised you, my son, better than this
You’ve been led astray.

Hey, I’m not homophobic dude,
I have gay friends don’t you know?
But, look, I don’t mean to be rude
Can you keep your distance?…no homo.

Can you guys just stop flaunting?
Can you keep it out of my face?
Think of the children that you’re haunting
There’s a fuckin’ time and place.

Is it just to make the victim wrong?
And let accusers have their say?
While someone who feels they don't belong
Thinks, ‘Why am I this way?’
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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 Iseun1

Thanks for the memories.

The axe forgets,

but not the tree.

I am telling you-

I am the tree.

Hard as oak,

fruitful, delicious,

my branches are limber

never fallen on anyone.

The axe lies,

but not the tree,

because the gashes

in my trunk and heart

make me lean to one side

groaning and creaking.

I feel hollow,

as if there were worms

on your venomous blade.

Eating me from the inside.

The axe recovers,

but not the tree.

Wedge sharpened anew

ready for it's next victim.

While I, a soft poplar,

bleed out my sap,

my life source.

But where were you?

Telling everyone 

how you got a splinter.

The axe forgets,

but not the tree

because you betrayed me

telling me

it was for my own good

because you needed me

for your own devices.

Using me, burning me,

shredding at my heart,

like I'm nothing to you.

The axe forgets 

but not the damn tree.

Because every drop of ink 

you splash on me,

every time I feel 

the lick of your fire

I am cursed.

Because it's not just your blade.

It's every little thing you do,

because you are made to hurt me

and I'm supposed to take it 

and fall for you every single time.

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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 Iseun1
Thanks for the memories.
The axe forgets,
but not the tree.
I am telling you-
I am the tree.
Hard as oak,
fruitful, delicious,
my branches are limber
never fallen on anyone.

The axe lies,
but not the tree,
because the gashes
in my trunk and heart
make me lean to one side
groaning and creaking.
I feel hollow,
as if there were worms
on your venomous blade.
Eating me from the inside.

The axe recovers,
but not the tree.
Wedge sharpened anew
ready for it's next victim.
While I, a soft poplar,
bleed out my sap,
my life source.
But where were you?
Telling everyone 
how you got a splinter.

The axe forgets,
but not the tree
because you betrayed me
telling me
it was for my own good
because you needed me
for your own devices.
Using me, burning me,
shredding at my heart,
like I'm nothing to you.

The axe forgets 
but not the damn tree.
Because every drop of ink 
you splash on me,
every time I feel 
the lick of your fire
I am cursed.
Because it's not just your blade.
It's every little thing you do,
because you are made to hurt me
and I'm supposed to take it 
and fall for you every single time.


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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 MikeRich15

Olive them, olive me.

 Write about an injustice:

 Heart pounding, boiling, a flashing white hot rage of anger spills over, a tidal wave of        

       unrepentant fury. I gaze upon the golden plains, the rising mountainous crusts 

           that bubble and simmer from the heat of passionate hands. What have I 

              done? What curse has befallen me, what sin is so great and so terrible

                  that it should so belittle me, so humiliate me? A faint whiff, a 

                     fading wisp of a memory flutters in front of me that frays

                        and fractures as my fingers stretch out, as I try and

                             make it whole again. Wafting, wading, will

                               my desire be fulfilled? Will taste rectify?

                                   I long, I yearn as a soul craves the

                                      loving touch of the familiar.

                                         The tender kiss of lovers

                                            embrace. Alas, should

                                               dark clouds that

                                                  blossom on 

                                                   the cracks

                                                    of mine

                                                     heart.

                                                        I

                                                      told,

                                                    begged, 

                                                pleaded with 

                                              them. Absolutely, 

                        explicitly, unequivocally: no olives on my pizza. 

   

                 

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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 MikeRich15
Olive them, olive me.
 Write about an injustice:

 Heart pounding, boiling, a flashing white hot rage of anger spills over, a tidal wave of        
       unrepentant fury. I gaze upon the golden plains, the rising mountainous crusts 
           that bubble and simmer from the heat of passionate hands. What have I 
              done? What curse has befallen me, what sin is so great and so terrible
                  that it should so belittle me, so humiliate me? A faint whiff, a 
                     fading wisp of a memory flutters in front of me that frays
                        and fractures as my fingers stretch out, as I try and
                             make it whole again. Wafting, wading, will
                               my desire be fulfilled? Will taste rectify?
                                   I long, I yearn as a soul craves the
                                      loving touch of the familiar.
                                         The tender kiss of lovers
                                            embrace. Alas, should
                                               dark clouds that
                                                  blossom on 
                                                   the cracks
                                                    of mine
                                                     heart.
                                                        I
                                                      told,
                                                    begged, 
                                                pleaded with 
                                              them. Absolutely, 
                        explicitly, unequivocally: no olives on my pizza. 
   
                 
#prosechallenge  #getlit  #itsIit 
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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 JamesMByers

Eyes Open

The men decide to come at me-

A badge, a whispered threat.

So many move around to see-

A sudden deep regret.

My hijab sends a panicked sign-

Religion sets the tone.

A plane takes off that once was mine-

I'm stuck; now it is gone.

The men have placed me in a room,

My children start to cry.

"Do you have bombs to make a boom?

Do you want us to die?"

I try and tell them who I am,

And that they have it wrong.

Instead, they offer to me, "Ma'am,

You need to play along.

The thing atop your head tells us

A terrorist is near.

Now, don't you try and make a fuss-

We want to make it clear-

The color of your skin defines

A nation of unrest."

My daughter's and my son's designs

Are beauty at its best.

I stand and ask what right have they

To hold us from the plane.

The men have little else to say,

The whole thing starts to drain.

At last my husband joins us there,

But they treat him the same.

They ruffle up his velvet hair;

They do not ask his name.

They confiscate a "weapon" in

A pocket- plastic fork.

They say, "Where are your people, then?"

He says, "We're from New York!"

About this time, the questions stop;

A white male with a gun

Unloads it on us- pop! Pop! POP!

We have nowhere to run.

Injustice never seems to fade-

But look at what they do-

Remember terror knows no shade,

Be free, Red, White, and Blue ...

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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 JamesMByers
Eyes Open
The men decide to come at me-
A badge, a whispered threat.
So many move around to see-
A sudden deep regret.
My hijab sends a panicked sign-
Religion sets the tone.
A plane takes off that once was mine-
I'm stuck; now it is gone.
The men have placed me in a room,
My children start to cry.
"Do you have bombs to make a boom?
Do you want us to die?"
I try and tell them who I am,
And that they have it wrong.
Instead, they offer to me, "Ma'am,
You need to play along.
The thing atop your head tells us
A terrorist is near.
Now, don't you try and make a fuss-
We want to make it clear-
The color of your skin defines
A nation of unrest."
My daughter's and my son's designs
Are beauty at its best.
I stand and ask what right have they
To hold us from the plane.
The men have little else to say,
The whole thing starts to drain.
At last my husband joins us there,
But they treat him the same.
They ruffle up his velvet hair;
They do not ask his name.
They confiscate a "weapon" in
A pocket- plastic fork.
They say, "Where are your people, then?"
He says, "We're from New York!"
About this time, the questions stop;
A white male with a gun
Unloads it on us- pop! Pop! POP!
We have nowhere to run.
Injustice never seems to fade-
But look at what they do-
Remember terror knows no shade,
Be free, Red, White, and Blue ...


#poetry  #prosechallenge  #culture  #Itslit  #getlit 
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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 sandflea68

It's Not Okay

Red glow of heat

suck it in

flick ashes

burning tobacco

cinders into your soul

        it’s okay, it’s all right

you’re hooked

addiction to your brim

seeps in – puffs of smoke

        it’s okay, it’s all right

cigarette companies

promise it’ll be better

just use light ones

the special filters

         it’s okay, it’s all right

don’t admit

it will kill you

in little pieces

dribbles of life

seeping away

inhaling your breath

        it’s okay, it’s all right

can’t breathe

cancer cells creeping

hearts attacking

chronic bronchitis

companies never

admitting fault

free samples

hook the young

send them on down

the road

to tobacco addiction

        it’s okay, it’s all right

more addictive

than crack or cocaine

make that money

tote that bale

watch them drop

like flies

        it’s okay, it’s all right

untruths fly by

above your head

kills you dead

but slowly

insidious death

taps on window

you’ll never know

what hit you

Watch your

loved ones

slip away

tobacco stain

reminders

of fatal mistake

lies, lies, lies

cigarette makers-

you lied

loved ones died.

        It’s not okay

        It’s not all right!

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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 sandflea68
It's Not Okay
Red glow of heat
suck it in
flick ashes
burning tobacco
cinders into your soul
        it’s okay, it’s all right
you’re hooked
addiction to your brim
seeps in – puffs of smoke
        it’s okay, it’s all right
cigarette companies
promise it’ll be better
just use light ones
the special filters
         it’s okay, it’s all right
don’t admit
it will kill you
in little pieces
dribbles of life
seeping away
inhaling your breath
        it’s okay, it’s all right
can’t breathe
cancer cells creeping
hearts attacking
chronic bronchitis
companies never
admitting fault
free samples
hook the young
send them on down
the road
to tobacco addiction
        it’s okay, it’s all right
more addictive
than crack or cocaine
make that money
tote that bale
watch them drop
like flies
        it’s okay, it’s all right
untruths fly by
above your head
kills you dead
but slowly
insidious death
taps on window
you’ll never know
what hit you
Watch your
loved ones
slip away
tobacco stain
reminders
of fatal mistake
lies, lies, lies
cigarette makers-
you lied
loved ones died.
        It’s not okay
        It’s not all right!
#challenge  #injustice 
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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 Jumotki

The Gathering

     I step into the sunlight for the first time in my life. Mia, distracted by the baby’s yowling, screams when she sees me shuffle out, hands outstretched like a toddler, my clumsy feet stumbling down the long stretch of cobblestone towards the sidewalk. In the moment before she hurls out the house, I glimpse the world in exquisite detail—the school bus with the twins pressed against the glass, making horrible faces, the cars parked in bright rows in front of houses, the painful green of each lawn pressed below pink azaleas and white picket fences, and, across the street, the sunlit arc of water from the neighbor’s hose while his dog squats mid-piss craning his head back to stare—before Mia knocks me down with a flying clout to the head and drags me inside the house.

      When Mia was pregnant with the baby, swollen and hissy like a broody hen, I was allowed to serve meals. Ben, in suit and tie, talked about his day at the office and all the meetings he attended, and something called fracking. He never looked at me. Josie, the oldest, told me to look at the ground whenever I was around them. The twins would kick me viciously as I passed. As soon as everyone finished eating and dishes were done, I was whisked away and locked in my closet for the night.

      Although I can no longer see them, from my closet I hear plates and glasses clinking, snippets of conversations, voices raised, arguing, laughing. I identify Ben's monotone lectures and Mia's piercing pitch, the clamor of the young ones. I lie pressed against the crack of the door, as near to them as possible, hoarding each story, each reference to the outside world, and drift asleep with their words on my lips.

      Mia lets me out when everyone is gone. She hobbles my ankles loosely with nylon rope and sets me to work. Loaded with rags and detergent, I shuffle-step around the furniture and piece together the life unseen from my closet—Josie’s glamour magazines scattered on the coffee table, the twins' collection of dead things from out-turned pockets. Mia doesn't mind my presence when she talks on the phone from her regal perch on the sofa, as she shrills advice and past remembrances to friends and relatives, and in these moments I feel my chest tighten with love for her. I want to nestle into the warm hammock of her lap and fall into sleep the way the baby does, milk-glutted and gurgling with contentment, satiety.

      Mia is a lethargic shape on the sofa, her phone and computer before her with the TV blaring in the background. She doesn't even shriek at me when an empty coffee mug tumbles to the floor. There is an upturned orange prescription bottle and a scatter of white pills on the coffee table. She gulps two without water and falls asleep with her head twisted so it looks broken while the baby screams and screams.

      The house becomes still. Even the baby falls silent, watching me with dull eyes. The door to the outside looms dark and unwelcoming as I lurch into the dining room. There is a large wine rack to one side and on the other a dessert table, which holds a golden latticed pie under a glass case like something out of a cooking magazine. The mahogany grandfather clock in the hall chimes loudly, counting down the hours.

      Mia sleeps in late and rushes to put me away before everyone comes home. She forgets to lock me in my closet, but I don't leave. I listen to them talk and laugh, a nascent argument between the twins cut short by a sharp word by Ben. Eventually the sounds dwindle; there is a burst of low mumbling and coughing. Something clatters to the floor. Someone cries out faintly. Only when silence descends do I creep out of my closet and peek into the dining room with its red walls and sparkling things and my family all around the dinner table.

      After repositioning one of the twins who has fallen out of his chair, I sit at my old seat and smile around the table, just like when Josie used to host tea parties for her dolls. I pour drinks from silver pitchers and arrange the slivers of pie on each plate. I even slip some crust into the baby’s slack mouth. Tenderly wiping a string of foam from Mia’s lips, I inquire after Ben’s day and his fracking expenditures. Twins, did your academic endeavors assuage your persistent need for destruction and chaos? Josie, that blouse looks elegant on you, even if you are trailing the collar in your food, let me fix that…there, that’s better. Mia, this pie is delightful, as always—thank you so much for gathering us all here.

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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 Jumotki
The Gathering
     I step into the sunlight for the first time in my life. Mia, distracted by the baby’s yowling, screams when she sees me shuffle out, hands outstretched like a toddler, my clumsy feet stumbling down the long stretch of cobblestone towards the sidewalk. In the moment before she hurls out the house, I glimpse the world in exquisite detail—the school bus with the twins pressed against the glass, making horrible faces, the cars parked in bright rows in front of houses, the painful green of each lawn pressed below pink azaleas and white picket fences, and, across the street, the sunlit arc of water from the neighbor’s hose while his dog squats mid-piss craning his head back to stare—before Mia knocks me down with a flying clout to the head and drags me inside the house.
      When Mia was pregnant with the baby, swollen and hissy like a broody hen, I was allowed to serve meals. Ben, in suit and tie, talked about his day at the office and all the meetings he attended, and something called fracking. He never looked at me. Josie, the oldest, told me to look at the ground whenever I was around them. The twins would kick me viciously as I passed. As soon as everyone finished eating and dishes were done, I was whisked away and locked in my closet for the night.
      Although I can no longer see them, from my closet I hear plates and glasses clinking, snippets of conversations, voices raised, arguing, laughing. I identify Ben's monotone lectures and Mia's piercing pitch, the clamor of the young ones. I lie pressed against the crack of the door, as near to them as possible, hoarding each story, each reference to the outside world, and drift asleep with their words on my lips.
      Mia lets me out when everyone is gone. She hobbles my ankles loosely with nylon rope and sets me to work. Loaded with rags and detergent, I shuffle-step around the furniture and piece together the life unseen from my closet—Josie’s glamour magazines scattered on the coffee table, the twins' collection of dead things from out-turned pockets. Mia doesn't mind my presence when she talks on the phone from her regal perch on the sofa, as she shrills advice and past remembrances to friends and relatives, and in these moments I feel my chest tighten with love for her. I want to nestle into the warm hammock of her lap and fall into sleep the way the baby does, milk-glutted and gurgling with contentment, satiety.
      Mia is a lethargic shape on the sofa, her phone and computer before her with the TV blaring in the background. She doesn't even shriek at me when an empty coffee mug tumbles to the floor. There is an upturned orange prescription bottle and a scatter of white pills on the coffee table. She gulps two without water and falls asleep with her head twisted so it looks broken while the baby screams and screams.
      The house becomes still. Even the baby falls silent, watching me with dull eyes. The door to the outside looms dark and unwelcoming as I lurch into the dining room. There is a large wine rack to one side and on the other a dessert table, which holds a golden latticed pie under a glass case like something out of a cooking magazine. The mahogany grandfather clock in the hall chimes loudly, counting down the hours.
      Mia sleeps in late and rushes to put me away before everyone comes home. She forgets to lock me in my closet, but I don't leave. I listen to them talk and laugh, a nascent argument between the twins cut short by a sharp word by Ben. Eventually the sounds dwindle; there is a burst of low mumbling and coughing. Something clatters to the floor. Someone cries out faintly. Only when silence descends do I creep out of my closet and peek into the dining room with its red walls and sparkling things and my family all around the dinner table.
      After repositioning one of the twins who has fallen out of his chair, I sit at my old seat and smile around the table, just like when Josie used to host tea parties for her dolls. I pour drinks from silver pitchers and arrange the slivers of pie on each plate. I even slip some crust into the baby’s slack mouth. Tenderly wiping a string of foam from Mia’s lips, I inquire after Ben’s day and his fracking expenditures. Twins, did your academic endeavors assuage your persistent need for destruction and chaos? Josie, that blouse looks elegant on you, even if you are trailing the collar in your food, let me fix that…there, that’s better. Mia, this pie is delightful, as always—thank you so much for gathering us all here.
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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 AmandaCary

Dear John,

    We spent our end side by side as we should have, but open to nothing, mapping our existence in your cynical glory and nicotine stained fingertips.  My eyes bright and naive in the beginning, drawn to your dark circles and fog and magnetized by what felt like a never-ending, beautiful melancholy of a-minor.

    The first time I found you hanging from the end of a noose, I lost all use of my legs.  I never told you that. Our child in my arms and too young to remember any of it, I dragged you down with one hand, screaming and cursing at you for doing such a horrible thing to yourself and your family.  You were angry with me, and I understood why soon after.  But I would never be the same.

    The pills were next, then your wrists, and after that I lost count of all of the threats, the plans, the attempts that never amounted to anything more than emergency calls.  I did begin a tally of psych visits, however, as my life became a sleight of prescription exchange after exchange.  My evenings turned from a sigh in a glass of blood red Cabernet to praying to God that it would not be the day that the rush hour traffic would keep me so long that you'd have time to finish before I got home.

    I learned when to speak and when not to, and I learned that it was best I didn't express any negativity around you in the event that my words would be the focus of your next attempt to kill yourself.  I knew they had been in the past, as you'd told me, and I began to pick away at all of the parts of me that allowed anything but a smile to peek through at you.

    I write you this, John, not because I want to make you feel guilty or ashamed.  I know you were sick, and I loved being by your side regardless of the circumstances behind what became an ever-watchful eye.  

    I write you this because I spent the last thirty-seven years of our marriage together in a cold well of silence, muffling my own voice in order to keep yours alive.  Every moment I breathed was for the one that you would tell me you were happy in our life together, in your life here, and you felt you had something worth living for.

    I write you this to bury with you because I am numb, and do not know how to grieve a loss that I've waited for over three decades to come.  

    I write you this because I gave myself into you to keep you from going out, but now you're gone.  Now you've left me - no goodbye, no kiss - having died of nothing more than heart failure in your sleep.

   So now I'm saying goodbye to you and your pain, and I will send it with you rightfully so that I may finally let my own take its place.

                                                                                                  Love Always,

                                                            Jane

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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 AmandaCary
Dear John,
    We spent our end side by side as we should have, but open to nothing, mapping our existence in your cynical glory and nicotine stained fingertips.  My eyes bright and naive in the beginning, drawn to your dark circles and fog and magnetized by what felt like a never-ending, beautiful melancholy of a-minor.
    The first time I found you hanging from the end of a noose, I lost all use of my legs.  I never told you that. Our child in my arms and too young to remember any of it, I dragged you down with one hand, screaming and cursing at you for doing such a horrible thing to yourself and your family.  You were angry with me, and I understood why soon after.  But I would never be the same.
    The pills were next, then your wrists, and after that I lost count of all of the threats, the plans, the attempts that never amounted to anything more than emergency calls.  I did begin a tally of psych visits, however, as my life became a sleight of prescription exchange after exchange.  My evenings turned from a sigh in a glass of blood red Cabernet to praying to God that it would not be the day that the rush hour traffic would keep me so long that you'd have time to finish before I got home.
    I learned when to speak and when not to, and I learned that it was best I didn't express any negativity around you in the event that my words would be the focus of your next attempt to kill yourself.  I knew they had been in the past, as you'd told me, and I began to pick away at all of the parts of me that allowed anything but a smile to peek through at you.
    I write you this, John, not because I want to make you feel guilty or ashamed.  I know you were sick, and I loved being by your side regardless of the circumstances behind what became an ever-watchful eye.  
    I write you this because I spent the last thirty-seven years of our marriage together in a cold well of silence, muffling my own voice in order to keep yours alive.  Every moment I breathed was for the one that you would tell me you were happy in our life together, in your life here, and you felt you had something worth living for.
    I write you this to bury with you because I am numb, and do not know how to grieve a loss that I've waited for over three decades to come.  
    I write you this because I gave myself into you to keep you from going out, but now you're gone.  Now you've left me - no goodbye, no kiss - having died of nothing more than heart failure in your sleep.
   So now I'm saying goodbye to you and your pain, and I will send it with you rightfully so that I may finally let my own take its place.

                                                                                                  Love Always,
                                                            Jane
#prosechallenge  #triggerwarning  #Itslit  #getlit  #injusticeofdepression 
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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 Shells

Injustice

..It would have been a day.  Just a day like any other day had it not been for love.  I guess it's always that right?  "Twas beauty killed the beast" "I'm going to pull time a part for you. " the pains of love can drive a body mad.  The loss of true love? Now that's maddening.  But damn her blood was on his hands.  

So I get it.  I can see it.  How everything went down hill that day. It was bound to be a slippery slope from there. 

  I was lucky that day. I'd gone home to bury Pa'. We had him laid to rest beside Grandpa up at North Smallville Memorial Gardens.  Tiny service.  Just the family and the regular hearse chasing, older crowd. Hovering about like they're waiting for death to snatch them up.  

 We could see it from there.  Just a mushroom cloud of smoke. Dark black against the horizon.  Of course, we didn't know then.  But we were watching Metropolis fall and the rise of new Man of Steel. 

  

 

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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 Shells
Injustice
..It would have been a day.  Just a day like any other day had it not been for love.  I guess it's always that right?  "Twas beauty killed the beast" "I'm going to pull time a part for you. " the pains of love can drive a body mad.  The loss of true love? Now that's maddening.  But damn her blood was on his hands.  
So I get it.  I can see it.  How everything went down hill that day. It was bound to be a slippery slope from there. 
  I was lucky that day. I'd gone home to bury Pa'. We had him laid to rest beside Grandpa up at North Smallville Memorial Gardens.  Tiny service.  Just the family and the regular hearse chasing, older crowd. Hovering about like they're waiting for death to snatch them up.  
 We could see it from there.  Just a mushroom cloud of smoke. Dark black against the horizon.  Of course, we didn't know then.  But we were watching Metropolis fall and the rise of new Man of Steel. 
  
 
#fantasy  #romance  #DC  #shitwrite  #getlit 
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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 JessicaJohnson

The All-Encompassing Corruption

A media mirage

Convincing us to crave the quintessential

And aspire to the carbon copy ideals

Of painted perfection and aesthetic facades.

And this poisoning perfection sells.

Our desires are indoctrinated

And they look like flawless skin and size 2 jeans.

Brainwashed beauty.

A propaganda pandemic.

Find your perfect hair and your perfect size

With this new cream and diet pill!

Sold to our blinded eyes and closed minds

With exquisite designs and photo-shopped lies

As we pursue this superficial perfection.

Unparalleled.

And unattainable.

Because no one really looks like this.

But we have to try!

Embrace the incomparable and compare yourself!

Covet the exterior allure.

And when the results reflected

In our tunnel vision fixation

Are still lacking,

We will cut ourselves down as a failure

Before buying into the next fad.

Please disregard our intellect and understanding,

And, instead, fixate on our flowing hair and flat abs.

Because, in this story, indoctrination is fully installed.

In this story, corruption coats our skin with empty promises of perfection.

And, in this story, beauty is everything.

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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 JessicaJohnson
The All-Encompassing Corruption
A media mirage
Convincing us to crave the quintessential
And aspire to the carbon copy ideals
Of painted perfection and aesthetic facades.
And this poisoning perfection sells.
Our desires are indoctrinated
And they look like flawless skin and size 2 jeans.
Brainwashed beauty.
A propaganda pandemic.
Find your perfect hair and your perfect size
With this new cream and diet pill!
Sold to our blinded eyes and closed minds
With exquisite designs and photo-shopped lies
As we pursue this superficial perfection.
Unparalleled.
And unattainable.
Because no one really looks like this.
But we have to try!
Embrace the incomparable and compare yourself!
Covet the exterior allure.
And when the results reflected
In our tunnel vision fixation
Are still lacking,
We will cut ourselves down as a failure
Before buying into the next fad.
Please disregard our intellect and understanding,
And, instead, fixate on our flowing hair and flat abs.
Because, in this story, indoctrination is fully installed.
In this story, corruption coats our skin with empty promises of perfection.
And, in this story, beauty is everything.
#poetry  #prosechallenge  #opinion  #Itslit  #getlit 
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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 melodious_bird

The Bastard Child

I winced as her long slender fingers struck my face, tears streamed down my face and my legs wobbled under the weight of my sorrows.

"Can't you do anything right, you good for nothing piece of shit" she bellowed.

My sweaty hands shook and a shiver ran through my spine even at that hot summer afternoon. Her words struck me as lightening and my sobs became the only noise in the hallway apart from her distinct shouts.

From the corner of my eyes I could make out the amused expression on her son's faces. Jagged pieces of the broken porcelain vase still littered the pearl white marble floor.

"No food for you tonight, you bastard and I don't want to see your face. Take her to the attic."

With these words I was ushered into a small room located adjacent to the terrace, reeking of decay and the dwelling for filthy rats.

I curled into a ball in a corner overlooked by the window through which light penetrated from the full moon, my sole companion for the night. Sleep was sporadic and fitful, my eyes fluttered open from the nightmares more than once.

Dreams of having my skin scraped of by my mistress or again getting boiling water poured over my hands interrupted my sleep.

Sometimes my mother visited me and part of me cherished seeing her, she never spoke but her emerald almond shaped eyes always looked at me, her arms always held me even when the world broke out in the cries of bastard child. When the dream ended her absence left a throbbing ache in my chest.

Tonight in my dream, I was waiting for my father on the doorstep, just before the outbreak of dawn and the minutes turned into hours but he never came and the sun never rose.

I missed her and my father who came, on the third of every second month and with him tagged along his children, the lawful ones. I begged to him to take me back home and then his new family spoke to me of the squalor they are living in, of the lack of space in their homes for me.

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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 melodious_bird
The Bastard Child
I winced as her long slender fingers struck my face, tears streamed down my face and my legs wobbled under the weight of my sorrows.

"Can't you do anything right, you good for nothing piece of shit" she bellowed.

My sweaty hands shook and a shiver ran through my spine even at that hot summer afternoon. Her words struck me as lightening and my sobs became the only noise in the hallway apart from her distinct shouts.

From the corner of my eyes I could make out the amused expression on her son's faces. Jagged pieces of the broken porcelain vase still littered the pearl white marble floor.

"No food for you tonight, you bastard and I don't want to see your face. Take her to the attic."

With these words I was ushered into a small room located adjacent to the terrace, reeking of decay and the dwelling for filthy rats.

I curled into a ball in a corner overlooked by the window through which light penetrated from the full moon, my sole companion for the night. Sleep was sporadic and fitful, my eyes fluttered open from the nightmares more than once.

Dreams of having my skin scraped of by my mistress or again getting boiling water poured over my hands interrupted my sleep.

Sometimes my mother visited me and part of me cherished seeing her, she never spoke but her emerald almond shaped eyes always looked at me, her arms always held me even when the world broke out in the cries of bastard child. When the dream ended her absence left a throbbing ache in my chest.

Tonight in my dream, I was waiting for my father on the doorstep, just before the outbreak of dawn and the minutes turned into hours but he never came and the sun never rose.

I missed her and my father who came, on the third of every second month and with him tagged along his children, the lawful ones. I begged to him to take me back home and then his new family spoke to me of the squalor they are living in, of the lack of space in their homes for me.
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