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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. 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.
Written by JamesMByers

Amends ...

Her eyes, like embers blazing hot,

Emancipated me.

The prison of my married rot;

She came to set me free.

An ocean barred and held us bound,

Though miles, they mattered not.

The bonnie lass my heart had found

Secured a sacred spot.

We met in poesy swapping words;

Her husband was a star.

And I was in my cage as birds

Unfit to fly afar.

For many years, we both had stayed

In halls and walls; routine.

Amended edges, tattered; frayed-

A chopping guillotine.

However, life has hidden keys

And she was such a gift.

An open door, a welcome breeze

To give each wing a lift.

Permission bled to passion's plan

And over time, we fell.

The world of woman and of man

Has never heard the tale.

No Romeo and Juliet;

No cross of lover's debt-

My loving never sowed regret;

No worry or no fret.

The secret words of poetry

Exchanged became the way

We shared each other knowingly;

We kissed, caressed by day.

And though our lips would never touch,

The way we pleased the soul

Ensured my love for her as such-

We made each other whole.

Rekindled feelings blooming grand

Exonerated hope.

In written form, she took my hand

And helped me learn to cope.

Confessions never claimed the right-

Ability in rhyme.

Decisions plagued my heart at night-

I longed for us a time

To share the space of wedded bliss.

However, on the screen

Composed of all we had in this-

The way our love was seen.

So many letters we exchanged;

So many wonders sought.

And though at odds we were estranged,

Together love was wrought.

Compelled by something old as earth,

We clamored to the sun.

Repelled by gravity in worth,

To never be undone-

A husband and a wife to those

Who never read the truth.

But she and I, we gladly chose

The sanguine labeled proof-

And as forever she will be

My love that never ends-

What you call infidelity

I choose to call amends ...

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. 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.
Written by JamesMByers
Amends ...
Her eyes, like embers blazing hot,
Emancipated me.
The prison of my married rot;
She came to set me free.
An ocean barred and held us bound,
Though miles, they mattered not.
The bonnie lass my heart had found
Secured a sacred spot.
We met in poesy swapping words;
Her husband was a star.
And I was in my cage as birds
Unfit to fly afar.
For many years, we both had stayed
In halls and walls; routine.
Amended edges, tattered; frayed-
A chopping guillotine.
However, life has hidden keys
And she was such a gift.
An open door, a welcome breeze
To give each wing a lift.
Permission bled to passion's plan
And over time, we fell.
The world of woman and of man
Has never heard the tale.
No Romeo and Juliet;
No cross of lover's debt-
My loving never sowed regret;
No worry or no fret.
The secret words of poetry
Exchanged became the way
We shared each other knowingly;
We kissed, caressed by day.
And though our lips would never touch,
The way we pleased the soul
Ensured my love for her as such-
We made each other whole.
Rekindled feelings blooming grand
Exonerated hope.
In written form, she took my hand
And helped me learn to cope.
Confessions never claimed the right-
Ability in rhyme.
Decisions plagued my heart at night-
I longed for us a time
To share the space of wedded bliss.
However, on the screen
Composed of all we had in this-
The way our love was seen.
So many letters we exchanged;
So many wonders sought.
And though at odds we were estranged,
Together love was wrought.
Compelled by something old as earth,
We clamored to the sun.
Repelled by gravity in worth,
To never be undone-
A husband and a wife to those
Who never read the truth.
But she and I, we gladly chose
The sanguine labeled proof-
And as forever she will be
My love that never ends-
What you call infidelity
I choose to call amends ...




#romance  #poetry  #prosechallenge  #Itslit  #getlit 
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Write automatically and describe who you really are, without referencing your physical appearance, job, traits, ethics, possessions, achievements, beliefs or environment. And good luck with that ;)
Written by sandflea68

Sea Skin

I am

     the soothing tide

     drifting on back strokes,

     footprints left as treasure

     in dawning foam

     of lapping teal waves.

I am

     watching weeping

     white diamond wind

     tossing oceans in

     salt of briny breeze,

     kissing azure ocean

     of white capped dreams.

I am

     skin of the sea rising

     to frothed crescents,

     canopy of waves

     sheltering my soul,

     alone, holding ocean

     in my sieved fingers

I am

     rich cobalt view

     of serene passion,

     floating above surface

     before diving into depth,

     sunlit smile and silence.

I am

     uncharted waters waiting

     for you to decipher

     blush of shell-toned sky,

     a soaring seagull

     at cusp of cerulean sea.

I am

     sailing my ship

     to unknown horizons

     in destiny of ballads,

     strolling endless shore

     of no regrets.

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Write automatically and describe who you really are, without referencing your physical appearance, job, traits, ethics, possessions, achievements, beliefs or environment. And good luck with that ;)
Written by sandflea68
Sea Skin
I am
     the soothing tide
     drifting on back strokes,
     footprints left as treasure
     in dawning foam
     of lapping teal waves.

I am
     watching weeping
     white diamond wind
     tossing oceans in
     salt of briny breeze,
     kissing azure ocean
     of white capped dreams.

I am
     skin of the sea rising
     to frothed crescents,
     canopy of waves
     sheltering my soul,
     alone, holding ocean
     in my sieved fingers

I am
     rich cobalt view
     of serene passion,
     floating above surface
     before diving into depth,
     sunlit smile and silence.

I am
     uncharted waters waiting
     for you to decipher
     blush of shell-toned sky,
     a soaring seagull
     at cusp of cerulean sea.

I am
     sailing my ship
     to unknown horizons
     in destiny of ballads,
     strolling endless shore
     of no regrets.

#challenge  #whoiam  #OneWithTheSea 
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Written by Mel in portal Stream of Consciousness

Balderdash

The smell of

cigars

booze

and fear-filled

sweaty men

was heavy

in the back room

of a restaurant

Working the quarter

Stacks on the table

Dealt into the game

We poured our guts

into our drinks

Topped them off with

lies and vulnerability

then swapped glasses

with one another

Pain written across every face

Guilt unleashed our demons

to mock and instill fear

Not even the whiskey

on our breath

would let us forget

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Written by Mel in portal Stream of Consciousness
Balderdash
The smell of
cigars
booze
and fear-filled
sweaty men
was heavy
in the back room
of a restaurant
Working the quarter
Stacks on the table
Dealt into the game
We poured our guts
into our drinks
Topped them off with
lies and vulnerability
then swapped glasses
with one another
Pain written across every face
Guilt unleashed our demons
to mock and instill fear
Not even the whiskey
on our breath
would let us forget
#DP 
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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. 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.
Written by Rumpleskag

But Is It Really Cheating?

     Frank sits in the bed that he has shared with his wife for forty-five years, leaning back comfortably against the cushioned headboard. He watches the young red-headed woman dancing seductively for him at the foot of the bed. He devours every inch of her with his hungry eyes, as his hands clutch the sheet beneath him in tortured anticipation.

     She has already removed the black satin dress that she had worn that evening. She is left in nothing but her lacy black underwear that draws attention to, but still conceals her most exciting parts. Her hips sway languidly to the rhythm of the slow jazz pouring from a stereo speaker, then slowly undulate forward to every third or fourth beat. He notices the soft tuft of red hair rubbing against the lace of her panties as her supple hips push the fabric back and forth.

     He feels an involuntary moan come on and then escape his lips. It makes her smile as she raises her hands to tussle her hair about and then lets go, sending a crimson flow cascading down the front of her shoulders to gently lay across the exposed skin of her bulging breasts. She leans herself forward, placing her hands on the bed while licking her lips and looking straight into his eyes. Her bra, which he wasn't even aware had been unclasped falls to the floor. Her breasts now swing freely side to side, with nipples taut as top hats pointing down and yet angling toward him at the same time. This vision causes some stirring in his shorts, but the banner has yet to be fully raised.

     She puts one hand ahead of the other, and then, from behind, her knee has come to join the party. He realizes that she is now slowly crawling toward him on all fours. She is a feline on the hunt for her prey, and the certainty that it is him she hunts for is enough inspiration for a bulge to quickly take shape below before sinking slowly back down. Dammit, he thinks, almost had it that time.

     She has seen what happened, and she gives him a sly pout, but continues her forward prowl nonetheless. Her red hair is now dangling from her shoulders partially obstructing his view of her swaying breasts. Somehow, not being able to see everything at once fills him with a fresh excitement, and the bulge appears again, but unfortunately, doesn't stay around much longer than before. He looks at her, embarrassed by his shortcoming. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I'm not sure what's going on down there."

     "Don't worry," she whispers back, "I know how to fix it." Her pout has now turned back into a smile as she comes forward and slowly lowers her face into his lap. He can now smell the sweet scent of her hair. It is intoxicating. He looks up at the ceiling as he feels her rustling in his shorts. His member is suddenly exposed, and he feels the cool room temperature on it for a split second before it is plunged into a soft, warm wetness. Euphoric stars explode in his mind. He hears her giggle and he thinks, well that didn't take long.

     She comes back up, breathing heavily now. He knows that she is just as excited as he is. She pulls herself up straddling his lap, as he reaches down to grab her by the ass and pull her as close to him as he possibly can. She begins to wriggle back and forth, grinding his manhood into the sheets beneath them. This is almost more than he can stand. Something has to happen, and it has to happen now.

     Something does happen, but not what he had expected. Suddenly, from the speaker playing the slow jazz, comes the blaring cry of a trumpet. Except, it's not a trumpet. It's more like thunder. No, not thunder, it's someone snoring.

     Frank wakes up in the bed that he has shared with his wife for forty-five years. He looks around and, She's gone, is his first panicked thought. It takes him a few moments, but then he looks to his left, and he realizes that she is not gone. She is lying next to him in the same spot that she has slept for the last forty-five years. She has gained more weight than she would ever admit to, and there is now more grey in her hair than red, but it's her. His member, which had been highly inspired by the dream, creeps back into its hiding place. That's okay, he thinks with a smile, you know she'll dance for you again.            He turns to the left wrapping his arm around her, and then falls back to sleep with his face buried in her sweet smelling hair.

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CotW #65: Write a story about infidelity. 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.
Written by Rumpleskag
But Is It Really Cheating?
     Frank sits in the bed that he has shared with his wife for forty-five years, leaning back comfortably against the cushioned headboard. He watches the young red-headed woman dancing seductively for him at the foot of the bed. He devours every inch of her with his hungry eyes, as his hands clutch the sheet beneath him in tortured anticipation.
     She has already removed the black satin dress that she had worn that evening. She is left in nothing but her lacy black underwear that draws attention to, but still conceals her most exciting parts. Her hips sway languidly to the rhythm of the slow jazz pouring from a stereo speaker, then slowly undulate forward to every third or fourth beat. He notices the soft tuft of red hair rubbing against the lace of her panties as her supple hips push the fabric back and forth.
     He feels an involuntary moan come on and then escape his lips. It makes her smile as she raises her hands to tussle her hair about and then lets go, sending a crimson flow cascading down the front of her shoulders to gently lay across the exposed skin of her bulging breasts. She leans herself forward, placing her hands on the bed while licking her lips and looking straight into his eyes. Her bra, which he wasn't even aware had been unclasped falls to the floor. Her breasts now swing freely side to side, with nipples taut as top hats pointing down and yet angling toward him at the same time. This vision causes some stirring in his shorts, but the banner has yet to be fully raised.
     She puts one hand ahead of the other, and then, from behind, her knee has come to join the party. He realizes that she is now slowly crawling toward him on all fours. She is a feline on the hunt for her prey, and the certainty that it is him she hunts for is enough inspiration for a bulge to quickly take shape below before sinking slowly back down. Dammit, he thinks, almost had it that time.
     She has seen what happened, and she gives him a sly pout, but continues her forward prowl nonetheless. Her red hair is now dangling from her shoulders partially obstructing his view of her swaying breasts. Somehow, not being able to see everything at once fills him with a fresh excitement, and the bulge appears again, but unfortunately, doesn't stay around much longer than before. He looks at her, embarrassed by his shortcoming. "I'm sorry," he whispers, "I'm not sure what's going on down there."
     "Don't worry," she whispers back, "I know how to fix it." Her pout has now turned back into a smile as she comes forward and slowly lowers her face into his lap. He can now smell the sweet scent of her hair. It is intoxicating. He looks up at the ceiling as he feels her rustling in his shorts. His member is suddenly exposed, and he feels the cool room temperature on it for a split second before it is plunged into a soft, warm wetness. Euphoric stars explode in his mind. He hears her giggle and he thinks, well that didn't take long.
     She comes back up, breathing heavily now. He knows that she is just as excited as he is. She pulls herself up straddling his lap, as he reaches down to grab her by the ass and pull her as close to him as he possibly can. She begins to wriggle back and forth, grinding his manhood into the sheets beneath them. This is almost more than he can stand. Something has to happen, and it has to happen now.
     Something does happen, but not what he had expected. Suddenly, from the speaker playing the slow jazz, comes the blaring cry of a trumpet. Except, it's not a trumpet. It's more like thunder. No, not thunder, it's someone snoring.
     Frank wakes up in the bed that he has shared with his wife for forty-five years. He looks around and, She's gone, is his first panicked thought. It takes him a few moments, but then he looks to his left, and he realizes that she is not gone. She is lying next to him in the same spot that she has slept for the last forty-five years. She has gained more weight than she would ever admit to, and there is now more grey in her hair than red, but it's her. His member, which had been highly inspired by the dream, creeps back into its hiding place. That's okay, he thinks with a smile, you know she'll dance for you again.            He turns to the left wrapping his arm around her, and then falls back to sleep with his face buried in her sweet smelling hair.
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Written by Prose in portal Prose

Let's Talk Prose

Good morning, Prosers.

It’s been quite the week, hasn’t it?

The last seven (ish) days has been a hive of activity here behind the Prose screens. We overhauled the Challenge Stream and we weren’t prepared for some of the concerns you guys laid across our digital desks.

We tried to answer each one of your concerns, but thought it best, now the dust has settled, to write something to each and every one of you.

Over a year ago, we took a vow of transparency and this is one of those times where we feel full transparency is needed.

There are only 4 of us on the team, and two of us have spent a long time in the past 7 days responding to each and every concern of yours, whilst working part-time on all of our Prose duties, and part-time on the PoetsIN duties.

Some of the complaints we received were misconceptions of the team and the company ethos that we have worked so hard at. So, this is us, setting the record straight. We are going to outline the concerns and comments, and put this to bed so we can continue improving Prose.

1) Default minimum word count.

This is set by default at 15. We will not be changing this any time soon. Why? Because when we allowed full flexibility, with no restriction there, our feeds were full with one word challenges. “Sorrow in one word.” “Death in one word.” Not only was this clogging the streams; we were also getting complaints about it. So we found a happy medium. With tens of thousands of users here, we had a couple of complaints about this. Not enough complaints that would make us re-think our stance.

2) Why did we charge for last week’s challenge of the week?

The first week’s charge for the challenge was to test the feature. We can test on our beta server, but know from experience that the second we unleash it on you guys, if there is a bug that we have missed, you will find it within seconds and we can fix it just as quickly.

3) Will we charge for future challenges?

Short answer, yes. Why? We’ll come back to this shortly.

4) What about those that do not have coins?

Those who do not have coins can either, a) head to the website and buy a coin package, b) become a partner and sell books/shorts/chapters, or c) write exceptional pieces that your Proser peers will juice you for. If neither a, b, or c apply to you, sit out the challenge and find one that doesn’t cost to enter.

5) Are we falling foul of “corruption to profit?” 

No. We are most certainly not. We are four people, managing a community tens of thousands larger than our foursome. We work tirelessly on this platform because we love it. This change wasn’t about profit, whatsoever. We’re humble, realistic, and realise that without charging for challenges, and taking a small cut from book sales etc, Prose won’t continue this way.

The above were the main concerns, and comments from people, said in a multitude of ways. All handled in a professional way, sometimes to-the-point, but never abrasive or rude. We are human after all and we’re damn proud of what we have achieved with such a small team and an equally small budget.

Think of how you discovered us. Was that through a large ad campaign? Nope, because we do not do that. We have grown this community organically, by spending time reaching out to people via social media and getting listed on some cool websites, that’s really it in a nutshell. Millions of man-hours go into this and we get paid less than most for the hours we put in.

We have made a tough decision. For the foreseeable, we will be charging for the Challenge of the Week. 50 cents. That’s all. There are challenges out there on the interwebs that charge a shed-load more for entering a challenge. We aren’t charging 50c to make a profit, we are charging 50c to put food on the table.

Over the past 67 weeks, we have given away $6700 in Challenge of the Week funds and have used our funding to pay for it. We haven’t asked you for a cent. The second we do, we have people asking why this “forum” can’t be free. Up until now, we have run Prose from a pool of money from generous investors who believe in what we do as much as we do. We haven’t yet made enough from Prose as a business to be able to pay our bills and such like. 

Prose is still free to use. But, if you want $100, you’ll have to pay 50 cents for the chance. We do not make enough currently to be able to keep giving free money, as much as we’d love to. There are plenty of free-to-enter challenges set by your peers that you can enter.

The more you guys buy coins, spend coins on each other, supporting the words of this amazing community, the more likely we’ll be able to offer a free-to-enter Challenge of the Week again. If we do not make enough to pay ourselves and pay the server charges, there will be no paid or free challenges. Dramatic, maybe, but that is the truth.

This does not mean Prose is failing, it does not mean we are going to ‘shut up shop,’ far from it. It’s us making you aware that these changes, along with your cooperation, will ensure our longevity.

Not all of the comments were comments of concern, and we thank each and every one of you for your continued support and for choosing Prose as your home for words.

We are working hard to tip the scales to benefit the author, and we’ve done this so far by providing numerous ways for each of you to make money with your words, with your royalties far outweighing ours.

Tomorrow we have another exciting opportunity for all of you, too, which has been months in the making. But, in the meantime, let’s recap how you can make a living on Prose.

1) Become a Prose Partner. Head here: theprose.com/p/partner. If you are accepted, you can sell your words on Prose. These can be sold as a single poem or short story, or as a book. Books can be sold per chapter, or as a whole.

2) Get involved in the Prose community, like, comment, share, and write. Write like it’s the last thing you’ll ever write; if Prosers like it, they’ll juice you.

3) Create awesome paid challenges. Prosers can actually make money from doing this.

If you would like some marketing tips from the team here, let us know, we’ll create a book in the bookstore that can help serve as a guide with some very useful tips and tricks in there. As a side-note, due to limitations with our time, we will have to charge for this book. Every little helps us, help you.

We think that’s all for now; if you have any further questions or concerns, please message or email us privately, and bear with us while we respond.

Let’s all get back to being creative, shall we?

Until next time, long live Prose!

Prose.

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Written by Prose in portal Prose
Let's Talk Prose
Good morning, Prosers.

It’s been quite the week, hasn’t it?

The last seven (ish) days has been a hive of activity here behind the Prose screens. We overhauled the Challenge Stream and we weren’t prepared for some of the concerns you guys laid across our digital desks.

We tried to answer each one of your concerns, but thought it best, now the dust has settled, to write something to each and every one of you.

Over a year ago, we took a vow of transparency and this is one of those times where we feel full transparency is needed.

There are only 4 of us on the team, and two of us have spent a long time in the past 7 days responding to each and every concern of yours, whilst working part-time on all of our Prose duties, and part-time on the PoetsIN duties.

Some of the complaints we received were misconceptions of the team and the company ethos that we have worked so hard at. So, this is us, setting the record straight. We are going to outline the concerns and comments, and put this to bed so we can continue improving Prose.

1) Default minimum word count.
This is set by default at 15. We will not be changing this any time soon. Why? Because when we allowed full flexibility, with no restriction there, our feeds were full with one word challenges. “Sorrow in one word.” “Death in one word.” Not only was this clogging the streams; we were also getting complaints about it. So we found a happy medium. With tens of thousands of users here, we had a couple of complaints about this. Not enough complaints that would make us re-think our stance.

2) Why did we charge for last week’s challenge of the week?
The first week’s charge for the challenge was to test the feature. We can test on our beta server, but know from experience that the second we unleash it on you guys, if there is a bug that we have missed, you will find it within seconds and we can fix it just as quickly.

3) Will we charge for future challenges?
Short answer, yes. Why? We’ll come back to this shortly.

4) What about those that do not have coins?
Those who do not have coins can either, a) head to the website and buy a coin package, b) become a partner and sell books/shorts/chapters, or c) write exceptional pieces that your Proser peers will juice you for. If neither a, b, or c apply to you, sit out the challenge and find one that doesn’t cost to enter.

5) Are we falling foul of “corruption to profit?” 
No. We are most certainly not. We are four people, managing a community tens of thousands larger than our foursome. We work tirelessly on this platform because we love it. This change wasn’t about profit, whatsoever. We’re humble, realistic, and realise that without charging for challenges, and taking a small cut from book sales etc, Prose won’t continue this way.

The above were the main concerns, and comments from people, said in a multitude of ways. All handled in a professional way, sometimes to-the-point, but never abrasive or rude. We are human after all and we’re damn proud of what we have achieved with such a small team and an equally small budget.

Think of how you discovered us. Was that through a large ad campaign? Nope, because we do not do that. We have grown this community organically, by spending time reaching out to people via social media and getting listed on some cool websites, that’s really it in a nutshell. Millions of man-hours go into this and we get paid less than most for the hours we put in.

We have made a tough decision. For the foreseeable, we will be charging for the Challenge of the Week. 50 cents. That’s all. There are challenges out there on the interwebs that charge a shed-load more for entering a challenge. We aren’t charging 50c to make a profit, we are charging 50c to put food on the table.

Over the past 67 weeks, we have given away $6700 in Challenge of the Week funds and have used our funding to pay for it. We haven’t asked you for a cent. The second we do, we have people asking why this “forum” can’t be free. Up until now, we have run Prose from a pool of money from generous investors who believe in what we do as much as we do. We haven’t yet made enough from Prose as a business to be able to pay our bills and such like. 

Prose is still free to use. But, if you want $100, you’ll have to pay 50 cents for the chance. We do not make enough currently to be able to keep giving free money, as much as we’d love to. There are plenty of free-to-enter challenges set by your peers that you can enter.

The more you guys buy coins, spend coins on each other, supporting the words of this amazing community, the more likely we’ll be able to offer a free-to-enter Challenge of the Week again. If we do not make enough to pay ourselves and pay the server charges, there will be no paid or free challenges. Dramatic, maybe, but that is the truth.

This does not mean Prose is failing, it does not mean we are going to ‘shut up shop,’ far from it. It’s us making you aware that these changes, along with your cooperation, will ensure our longevity.

Not all of the comments were comments of concern, and we thank each and every one of you for your continued support and for choosing Prose as your home for words.

We are working hard to tip the scales to benefit the author, and we’ve done this so far by providing numerous ways for each of you to make money with your words, with your royalties far outweighing ours.

Tomorrow we have another exciting opportunity for all of you, too, which has been months in the making. But, in the meantime, let’s recap how you can make a living on Prose.

1) Become a Prose Partner. Head here: theprose.com/p/partner. If you are accepted, you can sell your words on Prose. These can be sold as a single poem or short story, or as a book. Books can be sold per chapter, or as a whole.

2) Get involved in the Prose community, like, comment, share, and write. Write like it’s the last thing you’ll ever write; if Prosers like it, they’ll juice you.

3) Create awesome paid challenges. Prosers can actually make money from doing this.

If you would like some marketing tips from the team here, let us know, we’ll create a book in the bookstore that can help serve as a guide with some very useful tips and tricks in there. As a side-note, due to limitations with our time, we will have to charge for this book. Every little helps us, help you.

We think that’s all for now; if you have any further questions or concerns, please message or email us privately, and bear with us while we respond.

Let’s all get back to being creative, shall we?

Until next time, long live Prose!

Prose.

#prose  #transparency  #Itslit  #getlit  #AdminPost 
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Shook
Written by sandflea68

Hitchhiker

Hop in my truck

     standing forlorn in pouring rain

     wet face gnarled with pain

     tears cleaning tracks of dirt

     couldn’t wash off ingrained hurt

     thumb stuck out without much hope

     praying he’d be thrown lifesaving rope

Hop in my truck

     he was cold and “shook” to his bones

     I said, “Get in,” in comforting tones.

     “Where are you going? I’ll drop you there.”

     He mumbled, “I’m going almost anywhere!

     Just take me to a place of rest

     I just need peace – that’s my quest.”

Hop in my truck

     he climbed into the passenger seat

     closed tired eyes and went to sleep

     I kept on driving down lonely road

     wanting to help him carry his load

     when he woke, we were across state line

     he asked to get out, said he was fine.

Hop out of my truck

     I pressed a few dollars in his hands

     watched him set off for unknown lands

     turned on the radio and I was “shook”

     to find out hitchhiker was escaped crook

     I gave some thought but didn’t turn him in

     Who amongst us is without some sin?

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Shook
Written by sandflea68
Hitchhiker
Hop in my truck
     standing forlorn in pouring rain
     wet face gnarled with pain
     tears cleaning tracks of dirt
     couldn’t wash off ingrained hurt
     thumb stuck out without much hope
     praying he’d be thrown lifesaving rope

Hop in my truck
     he was cold and “shook” to his bones
     I said, “Get in,” in comforting tones.
     “Where are you going? I’ll drop you there.”
     He mumbled, “I’m going almost anywhere!
     Just take me to a place of rest
     I just need peace – that’s my quest.”

Hop in my truck
     he climbed into the passenger seat
     closed tired eyes and went to sleep
     I kept on driving down lonely road
     wanting to help him carry his load
     when he woke, we were across state line
     he asked to get out, said he was fine.

Hop out of my truck
     I pressed a few dollars in his hands
     watched him set off for unknown lands
     turned on the radio and I was “shook”
     to find out hitchhiker was escaped crook
     I gave some thought but didn’t turn him in
     Who amongst us is without some sin?

#challenge  #shook  #HopAlong 
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Continuing with cloudyvision23's original challenge to passionately write about a food, this time choose a dessert, write a descriptive poem, then tag another Proser to continue the challenge. Please also tag me @ruffmiriam in the comments, as well as previous writers of this prompt, so we can all read the final result.
Written by sandflea68 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Chocolate Eclair

I stroke you with my imagination

depravity arousing yearning

an excess of orgasmic delight

begging to caress glistening curves

primal and raw hunger swells

chocolate satin of your skin

pale glimpse of white on my lips

gliding down my inner passages

pressing your gluttony to my center

erotic thunder teasing my palate

licking lust dripping down my belly

tongue flicking in and out open hollow

opening up your lush silky center

tasting every drop in your crevices

spread wide to expose vanilla cream

tumescent climax of ripe desire

no leftovers at end of euphoric evening

our decadent dessert was each other.

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Continuing with cloudyvision23's original challenge to passionately write about a food, this time choose a dessert, write a descriptive poem, then tag another Proser to continue the challenge. Please also tag me @ruffmiriam in the comments, as well as previous writers of this prompt, so we can all read the final result.
Written by sandflea68 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Chocolate Eclair
I stroke you with my imagination
depravity arousing yearning
an excess of orgasmic delight
begging to caress glistening curves
primal and raw hunger swells
chocolate satin of your skin
pale glimpse of white on my lips
gliding down my inner passages
pressing your gluttony to my center
erotic thunder teasing my palate
licking lust dripping down my belly
tongue flicking in and out open hollow
opening up your lush silky center
tasting every drop in your crevices
spread wide to expose vanilla cream
tumescent climax of ripe desire
no leftovers at end of euphoric evening
our decadent dessert was each other.
#challenge  #OoohDesserts 
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Written by Winterreign in portal Poetry & Free Verse

To forget

Forgetting is harder than remembering.

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Written by Winterreign in portal Poetry & Free Verse
To forget
Forgetting is harder than remembering.
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CotW #66: Write about the biggest lesson life has taught you.
Written by dustygrein

Swept Away!

When I was very young, long before the days of the internet, cell phones or video games, we were forced to find ways to entertain ourselves. Color TV was only for those who could afford it, and there were only 3 network channels on our little black and white set. Besides, that little video window on the world only truly held appeal on Saturday mornings (cartoons), right after school (Sesame Street), or at midnight on Friday (monster movies).

This means that when it wasn't raining, and I didn't have a good book to take me away, I spent a lot of time playing outside. We moved around quite a bit when I was young, but having a father with 8 brothers and sisters meant that whenever we lived close enough to one of them, there were always a lot of cousins to hang out with.

In the fall of 1969, I was five, and still looked about three. I was always small for my age, but that didn't mean I was going to be left out. During one of our visits, two of my older cousins decided that they were going for a hike through the woods and fields near my aunt's house, in a little town called East Prairie. Rickey was 8, and he was my buddy that autumn. His older brother Robby was 14, which meant that he was one of those mysterious BIG kids known as teenagers.

As we went exploring through the trees, we came upon a roaring river. (Okay, it was actually just the East Prairie Creek). It had been raining for days previously and this normally quiet little creek was swollen and the churning water was racing, carrying twigs and debris along as it bullied its way to the Puyallup River, some 10 miles further downstream. In my little-guy's eyes, it could have been the Missisippi.

Robby and a teenage friend of his who had joined us, both headed right into the turbulence and waded—with a little effort—through the water which came about halfway up their thighs. They kept on going, leaving Rickey and I to get across somehow. Rickey looked at the fast moving water, and then at how little I was, and told me he had an idea. He would just give me a shoulder ride, and we would wade across together. The water was no deeper than his waist after all, and I was light.

I remember being nervous, but since I couldn't swim, there was no way I was going to be able to get across the river, which was about 10 yards wide, but looked to me like it was a mile or more across. So in one of those moments of childish faith and adventure, I climbed up on his shoulders, and we set off.

We actually made it about eight steps across—almost to the halfway point—when Rickey's foot slipped on a smooth rock, and we both went sprawling into the rushing, frothy water.

To this day, I can feel the icy water enveloping me, tossing me this way and that, and tumbling me over and over. I remember trying to get my face out of the water, and gasping a huge lungful of dirty tasting air each time I was able to break the surface.

The swirling river carried me downstream for almost a half mile, scrambling for something to hold on to, before I finally saw a low hanging tree branch, brushing the surface of the water. I grabbed it with one hand, then wrapped my arms around it in a death hold... and I waited. I prayed for someone, anyone, to come find me, but I wasn't really terrified. With the total faith of the very young, I knew that I would eventually get home, but it was a long, cold vigil, as the river flowed past me and through my clothes.

After minutes that seemed like days, I heard Rickey's voice, full of terror and worry, screaming my name. I was shivering so hard that I could only croak "Over Here!" in a voice that sounded way too quiet in my own ears. He emerged from the trees, dripping wet, with eyes as big as dinner plates, and ran to the branch where I clung, With a little work, he was able to climb out on the branch and haul me out of the water.

As we lay together in the grass, shivering and letting the adrenaline fade, I still remember him looking at me and saying "You're a lot heavier than you look." This of course made is both start laughing, and we got up and slogged our way out of the woods, about 2 miles from the house. We trudged along the road, and cut through a neighbor's field, wondering if they had started a search party for us.

When we finally got to the house, fearing a scolding or worse, we found Robby and his buddy on the porch, eating lunch. "Oh, there you guys are." No one even knew we were missing!

After a change of clothes and some laughter about our adventure, Rickey and I got our lunch, and decided that next time we would just climb trees instead.

As a parent and grandparent, I'm glad that we never told our parents. I'm sure my mom and dad would have been frantic, had they known the truth. I had an angel on my shoulder that day, and amazingly I never developed a fear of the water, nor even had bad dreams afterward (though I do remember that day very clearly).

The lesson I learned that day was simple: When you can't make it on your own, don't be afraid to climb on the shoulders of a friend or loved one. If they should slip and fall into the rapids, and you find yourself in deep fast-moving water—keep breathing, look around for a branch, and hang on until things get better.

(c) 2017 - dustygrein

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CotW #66: Write about the biggest lesson life has taught you.
Written by dustygrein
Swept Away!
When I was very young, long before the days of the internet, cell phones or video games, we were forced to find ways to entertain ourselves. Color TV was only for those who could afford it, and there were only 3 network channels on our little black and white set. Besides, that little video window on the world only truly held appeal on Saturday mornings (cartoons), right after school (Sesame Street), or at midnight on Friday (monster movies).

This means that when it wasn't raining, and I didn't have a good book to take me away, I spent a lot of time playing outside. We moved around quite a bit when I was young, but having a father with 8 brothers and sisters meant that whenever we lived close enough to one of them, there were always a lot of cousins to hang out with.

In the fall of 1969, I was five, and still looked about three. I was always small for my age, but that didn't mean I was going to be left out. During one of our visits, two of my older cousins decided that they were going for a hike through the woods and fields near my aunt's house, in a little town called East Prairie. Rickey was 8, and he was my buddy that autumn. His older brother Robby was 14, which meant that he was one of those mysterious BIG kids known as teenagers.

As we went exploring through the trees, we came upon a roaring river. (Okay, it was actually just the East Prairie Creek). It had been raining for days previously and this normally quiet little creek was swollen and the churning water was racing, carrying twigs and debris along as it bullied its way to the Puyallup River, some 10 miles further downstream. In my little-guy's eyes, it could have been the Missisippi.

Robby and a teenage friend of his who had joined us, both headed right into the turbulence and waded—with a little effort—through the water which came about halfway up their thighs. They kept on going, leaving Rickey and I to get across somehow. Rickey looked at the fast moving water, and then at how little I was, and told me he had an idea. He would just give me a shoulder ride, and we would wade across together. The water was no deeper than his waist after all, and I was light.

I remember being nervous, but since I couldn't swim, there was no way I was going to be able to get across the river, which was about 10 yards wide, but looked to me like it was a mile or more across. So in one of those moments of childish faith and adventure, I climbed up on his shoulders, and we set off.

We actually made it about eight steps across—almost to the halfway point—when Rickey's foot slipped on a smooth rock, and we both went sprawling into the rushing, frothy water.

To this day, I can feel the icy water enveloping me, tossing me this way and that, and tumbling me over and over. I remember trying to get my face out of the water, and gasping a huge lungful of dirty tasting air each time I was able to break the surface.

The swirling river carried me downstream for almost a half mile, scrambling for something to hold on to, before I finally saw a low hanging tree branch, brushing the surface of the water. I grabbed it with one hand, then wrapped my arms around it in a death hold... and I waited. I prayed for someone, anyone, to come find me, but I wasn't really terrified. With the total faith of the very young, I knew that I would eventually get home, but it was a long, cold vigil, as the river flowed past me and through my clothes.

After minutes that seemed like days, I heard Rickey's voice, full of terror and worry, screaming my name. I was shivering so hard that I could only croak "Over Here!" in a voice that sounded way too quiet in my own ears. He emerged from the trees, dripping wet, with eyes as big as dinner plates, and ran to the branch where I clung, With a little work, he was able to climb out on the branch and haul me out of the water.

As we lay together in the grass, shivering and letting the adrenaline fade, I still remember him looking at me and saying "You're a lot heavier than you look." This of course made is both start laughing, and we got up and slogged our way out of the woods, about 2 miles from the house. We trudged along the road, and cut through a neighbor's field, wondering if they had started a search party for us.

When we finally got to the house, fearing a scolding or worse, we found Robby and his buddy on the porch, eating lunch. "Oh, there you guys are." No one even knew we were missing!

After a change of clothes and some laughter about our adventure, Rickey and I got our lunch, and decided that next time we would just climb trees instead.

As a parent and grandparent, I'm glad that we never told our parents. I'm sure my mom and dad would have been frantic, had they known the truth. I had an angel on my shoulder that day, and amazingly I never developed a fear of the water, nor even had bad dreams afterward (though I do remember that day very clearly).

The lesson I learned that day was simple: When you can't make it on your own, don't be afraid to climb on the shoulders of a friend or loved one. If they should slip and fall into the rapids, and you find yourself in deep fast-moving water—keep breathing, look around for a branch, and hang on until things get better.

(c) 2017 - dustygrein
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Written by Soulhearts in portal Micropoetry

found a handwritten note

on yellowing paper

ink smeared from the eye that read it

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Written by Soulhearts in portal Micropoetry
found a handwritten note
on yellowing paper
ink smeared from the eye that read it
#poetry  #micropoetry  #threelinepoetry 
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