Thank you to those who participated in my challenge. 24 people have entered the challenge and I read through every single one of them. Although I didn't comment on every single prompt (I apologize if I didn't comment on yours), each piece resonated with me in a way. Every single one of you deserve at least an honorble mention, but since it is a challenge, I must make it fair and square and select only one winner - that one winner who successfully resonated me the most. That one winner who gave me an existential crisis (in a good way).

The winner who won a resonation trophy.

So with that, congrats to @maestesauthor for winning this challenge! Your prompt has touched me in a way that it made so much sense. You uniquely answered the prompt that it immediately caught my eye on the first sentence. Because it was so relatable, it deeply touched me in a way, almost as if there was another version of me out there.

Edit: I forgot to put the link to their prompt, lemme do that real quick (send them huge support please)

https://theprose.com/post/759307/the-forgotten-child

Here is your resonation trophy *grabs resonation trophy from the basement, where it was safely locked in a safe* You now have bragging rights to flex on your invisible resonation trophy.

Each piece of writing was deeply felt. If you did not win, again, there is always next time because I usually regularly make new challenges! Each piece of writing told me something about you that made me think, Who hurt you this time? I wish I could assign a winner to more than one person, but since we're playing fair and square here, only one person can be the winner.

And here is a participant trophy to those who participated!

*grabs 24 participant trophies made out of bronze from the basement, also kept in a safe*

Anyways, take care, stay real, and continue to inspire.

xx

the worst place i ever lived, i can not help but revisit

it is hard to get away from our old haunts

no matter how miserable isn’t it?

each time i show back up, everything is different

the rooms are uncomfortable

and when there, i never feel quite with it

i hate when i find myself in that awful place

the way it feels, the grief the loss, the blankness

in every familiar and yet unfamiliar face

the idea of being there brings me such anxiety

i hate it

especially the time

it seems to be an hour a second-

in that place in my mind

most times, someone invites me there

unknowingly and on purpose

i hate the way the foundation feels

and the texture of every surface

i could be so happy

if i never had to visit

what is the key to just moving far away

to go as far away as possible- is that it?

there is just one small space

that feels comfortable in those Halls,

a tiny area, all my own

in that awful, draining place

i don’t want to feel this way

about where i should be at least somewhat safe

but no one there remembers me

even less when I beg to be seen in haste

it is my childhood, my adolescence, and adulthood

once for a short time it was not all bad-

there used to be so much good

my past, present.... and future

now i realize

where i fall everytime i stop feeling

present, wanted, safe, or alive

it’s in that place now,

the only time i wish i could be dead

the place i hate to be the most-

my own rotting head

I lived half my life there

So close inside them

That I nearly disappeared

There’s almost no place

I’d rather not be

I need his kind of sanctuary

Like I need a sugar coated cyanide tab

It was killing me anyway

Perhaps that poison

would have been kinder

..here we have a closed balcony, you’ll share the flat with another three guys , but this “room” is all yours. spacious, enough for a queen size bed.

you have a closet and one power outlet. but dont go past 60watts or the fuse jumps.

you get plenty of sunshine. we put on curtains, just for you. they only cover half the line but light is a good thing. think of the savings you’ll make with electricity. no seriously, think about it. remember those 60watts i was talking about.

and the view outside! look at that empty lot! just beautiful. no cars park here, well at least until 4:30, then it turns to an all-night parking lot. but you might consider that a benefit. there are flood lights outside, so you really can enjoy things. people often spend time here, enjoying the clear, undesturbed night view.

oh, you play the saxophone? well no problem with anyone. no worries. i’ll tell you what, you can practice here all night to the rythem of the car alarms down in the lot. no one will complain, i promise. it drowns out...the alarms i mean...oh lets move on to the kitchen...what’s that? you won’t take it? listen buddy, im doing you a favor for even talking to you. i have another three guys to show them this mess. here, look at my schedule all of them by noon.

oh, why not do tbe showing in the afternoon? what, around three? no, i cant come here again, i have another fire tra..i mean apartment to show.

take it or leave it...but you’ll take it. i can see the desperation in your eyes. the hunger for an experience. the visceral need to live through something. well here you’ll have it all;

just remember three months upfront, deposit on the bed and a five year contract.

why five years?

why not?!

Perhaps, at this moment, as I sit and ponder

Future me somewhere will look back and wonder

And smile, and think, as her arms nimbly cross,

“How can one lose again what never was lost?”

That future me maybe could answer your question.

Who knows? Maybe not. It was just a suggestion.

For now, though, I’ll say (not entirely sure)

I’d probably lose it the same way as before.

If before was a bed with the man of my dreams

Or a couch, or table? You know what I mean.

After wedding, of course, before that, wouldn’t dare.

On our honeymoon night; a romantic affair.

Or maybe it’s morning or mid-afternoon.

Whenever, wherever he’ll cause me to swoon.

Whoever he is, however it goes,

In that very moment, I’ll recall this prose.

And smile, and think, as my arms nimbly cross,

“If something is given, it’s not truly lost.”

in my old school

we didn't have

winter break.

we had

christmas break.

time off to roll in

the sweet corruption of

capitalism.

i celebrated christmas,

but i had friends who didn't.

my jewish friend had to go to school

on her holiday.

my muslim friend had to

skip school

to participate in her holiday.

but christians

got their time off.

no matter what branch

of christianity you

are part of

you always get

christmas day off.

because it's not winter break.

it's not designed

to accommodate everyone.

it's just another priviledge

of the majority.

the day my friend was absent

in gym class

i realized just how privileged we are.

even if i'm not a christian,

i celebrate christian holidays,

because here,

we've been taught, however subtly

that christianity is right.

it is embedded in our very culture,

in our very world.

persecution is having to skip school because

your holiday is not

accommodated.

persecution is

listening to someone say

merry christmas

when you don't even

celebrate it.

persecution is

going on christmas break

even when

you don't get

a break of your own.

Two years ago, in the summer of 2019, an 11-year-old girl in my town hung herself. Two years ago, about two weeks after the incident, I got pretty close to following in that little girl's footsteps. The keyword being, close.

Her name was not Ana, but it's close as I am going to say because I refuse to say her name. When I learned she was gone, it was my mother that told me. She didn't sugarcoat anything or try to let the news out gently in any way shape or form, she just said: "Ana hung herself last night." and walked out. It has always bothered me how my mother didn't even try to sound upset, she told me a mentally destructive statement like that is if she was telling me I might need to grab a jacket before I left. I honestly wish I had the right to be mad at her for this, but I don't cause I reacted as if she just told me to grab a jacket.

All I said was "Okay.". I showed no emotion at all as if nothing even fazed me about it. How fucked up is that? A child is told coldly how one of their best friends just hung herself and they don't even react. As an 11-year-old girl, I guess maybe it was because I didn't believe it. How can you just believe that someone who was just there, is now gone?

I reacted like a sociopath for a full day, but then I couldn't stop crying for the next two weeks after that because I think I realized that I woke up again and Ana was still dead. It hit even harder when a few more nights after that I finally got around to what little miss Ana wrote in my yearbook. I still have never felt as guilty for anything I have done in my life as how I felt reading, "Hope you had a great last year! <3Ana", while getting ready to go into my second year of middle school.

I watched the entire small town I live in release balloons in the air wear obnoxious shades of purple and cry for someone they didn't know a single thing about. I'm not didn't do those things as well, nor am I going to walk around like I know some truth about a dead girl that no one else knows. If I did that I'd be a liar.

Anyways, it's cold as shit out here, and all these cemetery cats are staring at me like I'm chopped liver. I don't even know why I felt the need to talk about you to your grave like this in the first place. Oh, and before I leave, fuck you, Ana.

Fuck you for making me feel like I was supposed to be your saving grace or some shit like that when you know damn well I'm not cut out for that shit.