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Prose Challenge of the Month #2: Write a story where you wake up as the most intelligent person on Earth. Fifteen entries will be featured in a 500-coin Prose Original Book, whereby each winner will take 5% lifetime royalties. You must purchase the book to discover its authors, who will be determined by objective data (reads, likes, reposts, comments) and by team vote to ensure reader satisfaction. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtags “itslit,” “getlit,” and “ProseChallenge.”
Written by writerjess in portal Fiction

The Curse of Intelligence

You'd think it would be fun, wouldn't you? Waking up one day and realizing that not a single person in the whole world is as smart as you are. But it's not. It's not fun because it's not for the day, or the week, it's forever. And forever I will have to live with this power, this burden that I never wanted. That I never asked for. 

And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm selfish, that how could I ever possibly see this blessing as a curse. And trust me, I would've thought the same thing if it had been just ten hours ago. But this isn't ten hours ago, this is now. And now I've been faced with something I would have never expected. 

I've been faced with a power. And I don't deserve it.

Someone else should have woken up today and discovered that they were the smartest person in the world because I don't deserve it. A person who knows, not everything, but more than any other human in the world has a duty, a power, a voice. And with this voice, this person should be changing the world. Finding cures, eradicating crises, making outer-space discoveries, and educating others to create a better future generation. I know this, and yet I can't do it. 

Just because I'm smart now, doesn't mean I'm good. Just because I'm smart now doesn't mean I have the answers to the questions that actually matter. Just because I'm smart now doesn't mean I want to do anything. 

If this gift was miraculously given to me out of all the seven billion, four hundred and eighty-six million, five hundred and thirty-four thousand, nine hundred and ninety and counting people in the world then please, please it needs to go to someone else. I didn't even search up that number, it just came to my brain when I needed it to and that should not be happening.

I don't want to save the world. I don't want to look at the people around me and see every little detail in their personal life. I don't want to be overwhelmed with the endless information every time I look anywhere or at anything. I do it and I can't breathe because I can't shut it down, the numbers and facts, they just keep coming and coming and it's making my head hurt and my brain hurt and I know this is a run-on sentence and now it's bugging me and I don't want it to bug me and yesterday it would have been so useful to know on my essay but I didn't know it yesterday, I know it today and I hate it I hate it I hate it. 

And school, I can't go back to school where I know everything I could possibly be taught and I notice every mistake a teacher makes. I won't be able to talk to my friends anymore because I'll just always be, not one, but one hundred steps ahead. I'll hate them for the ignorance that isn't their fault, and they'll hate me for the knowledge that isn't mine. 

I never understood the saying "ignorance is bliss" but now I can't stop thinking about it. Oh, what I would give to live in complete ignorance, in complete bliss, never realizing my thoughts weren't my own and my perceptions were all twisted. I want to watch useless TV shows until it fries my brain, I want to live young and have no worries, I want to be reckless and laugh about it the next day, I want to feel the satisfaction of solving a problem I had wracked my brain on. 

Life is meaningless if there is not more opportunity to be challenged.

In a world that is a chess game, my only path is the path to victory, but I don't want the game to end.

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Prose Challenge of the Month #2: Write a story where you wake up as the most intelligent person on Earth. Fifteen entries will be featured in a 500-coin Prose Original Book, whereby each winner will take 5% lifetime royalties. You must purchase the book to discover its authors, who will be determined by objective data (reads, likes, reposts, comments) and by team vote to ensure reader satisfaction. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtags “itslit,” “getlit,” and “ProseChallenge.”
Written by writerjess in portal Fiction
The Curse of Intelligence
You'd think it would be fun, wouldn't you? Waking up one day and realizing that not a single person in the whole world is as smart as you are. But it's not. It's not fun because it's not for the day, or the week, it's forever. And forever I will have to live with this power, this burden that I never wanted. That I never asked for. 

And I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm selfish, that how could I ever possibly see this blessing as a curse. And trust me, I would've thought the same thing if it had been just ten hours ago. But this isn't ten hours ago, this is now. And now I've been faced with something I would have never expected. 

I've been faced with a power. And I don't deserve it.

Someone else should have woken up today and discovered that they were the smartest person in the world because I don't deserve it. A person who knows, not everything, but more than any other human in the world has a duty, a power, a voice. And with this voice, this person should be changing the world. Finding cures, eradicating crises, making outer-space discoveries, and educating others to create a better future generation. I know this, and yet I can't do it. 

Just because I'm smart now, doesn't mean I'm good. Just because I'm smart now doesn't mean I have the answers to the questions that actually matter. Just because I'm smart now doesn't mean I want to do anything. 

If this gift was miraculously given to me out of all the seven billion, four hundred and eighty-six million, five hundred and thirty-four thousand, nine hundred and ninety and counting people in the world then please, please it needs to go to someone else. I didn't even search up that number, it just came to my brain when I needed it to and that should not be happening.

I don't want to save the world. I don't want to look at the people around me and see every little detail in their personal life. I don't want to be overwhelmed with the endless information every time I look anywhere or at anything. I do it and I can't breathe because I can't shut it down, the numbers and facts, they just keep coming and coming and it's making my head hurt and my brain hurt and I know this is a run-on sentence and now it's bugging me and I don't want it to bug me and yesterday it would have been so useful to know on my essay but I didn't know it yesterday, I know it today and I hate it I hate it I hate it. 

And school, I can't go back to school where I know everything I could possibly be taught and I notice every mistake a teacher makes. I won't be able to talk to my friends anymore because I'll just always be, not one, but one hundred steps ahead. I'll hate them for the ignorance that isn't their fault, and they'll hate me for the knowledge that isn't mine. 

I never understood the saying "ignorance is bliss" but now I can't stop thinking about it. Oh, what I would give to live in complete ignorance, in complete bliss, never realizing my thoughts weren't my own and my perceptions were all twisted. I want to watch useless TV shows until it fries my brain, I want to live young and have no worries, I want to be reckless and laugh about it the next day, I want to feel the satisfaction of solving a problem I had wracked my brain on. 

Life is meaningless if there is not more opportunity to be challenged.

In a world that is a chess game, my only path is the path to victory, but I don't want the game to end.
#fiction  #philosophy  #prosechallenge  #Itslit  #getlit 
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Written by EternalRain

Inevitable

We’re among the stars, Auxiliary and I.

She’s jumping from star to star and I’m stuck on the moon.

Being with her will bring nothing but impending doom. We’re in love with each other anyway.

Auxiliary has skin that matches midnight and dresses that sing a song of loveliness. She dances in the stars and her hair tangles in the glowing dips on them.

The stars know us. They know us. They know we’re in love. And they’d do anything to keep the two of us apart, which is why we’ll surely be blasted apart one day, through the galaxy, away from each other, away and away and away.

Auxiliary lights up the stars with her energy every night. And after all that’s done she twirls to the moon, to me, and we stare at the lighted up stars that really do hate us.

Doom for us is inevitable, and there’s no doubting that. Auxiliary knows that and I know that and doom is floating around us. It’s an aura, the doom is. An aura of doom.

Auxiliary jumps from star to star, lighting them up one by one. I’m watching her. She has so much energy. I have none.

She lights up the last one, and then flies through the darkness, her whole body glowing and humming with energy that sounds like a million songs. She twirls down to the moon like she does every night and she lets out a breathless, “Hello, Euphonious!” She does a full turn and her white dress twirls as she does so.

She always calls me by that name. She loves her long words. I prefer E. Auxiliary likes the complicated things.

We sit down together on the moon, like usual.

“Our doom is inexorable,” Auxiliary states. Her black hair is everywhere, pooling on the moon like spilled ink on parchment.

I squint my eyes as they catch on an especially bright star (Auxiliary named that one Sempiternal. She says once we’re blasted across the galaxy, we’ll still see that one star. It’ll be sempiternal. So that’s its name.) and then I turn my head to her. “I prefer inevitable.”

“Ineluctable.”

“Inevitable,” I argue back, because it’s what we always do.

“This is why we’re doomed lovers, Euphonious,” she says, because it’s what she always says.

“Call me E.”

“Never,” Auxiliary says, laying back on the rough surface of the moon. She’s looking up at the sky and her lips start moving; naming the stars.

I lay back too. We stare up at the darkness, only illuminated by the stars, our breaths light and sweet.

“We’re not meant to be together,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. Auxiliary’s tracing the patterns of the stars with her finger, one eye closed tight.

“We’ll be blasted through the galaxy,” Auxiliary says, in her normal voice. It never seems to waver. Always happy, always cheerful. “The stars will be frustrated with us.”

I say what I usually do, “Star crossed lovers.”

And she turns her head to me, beaming brighter than Sempiternal or any stars, and says what she usually does, “What a beautiful phrase.”

She gets up, her movements slow. She needs to get back to work; lighting up the sky. I stand up too, to watch her go.

“Goodbye, Euphonious,” she says, giving me a hug. She breaks apart from me first, looks straight into my eyes, and gives me a smile I know all too well: it means I love you and I’m sorry and ineluctable at the same time. I give her my smile back: I love you and I’m sorry and inevitable. “Call me E,” I whisper, and then she turns around, to run off again.

“Doomed, the two of us!” She calls, and she jumps into the darkness. “Inexorable. Ineluctable. Inescapable. Ineludible.” She says it like she always does. Auxiliary has a way with words. She’s something and more.

“Inevitable,” I add, and she smiles and runs off to the stars.

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Written by EternalRain
Inevitable
We’re among the stars, Auxiliary and I.

She’s jumping from star to star and I’m stuck on the moon.

Being with her will bring nothing but impending doom. We’re in love with each other anyway.

Auxiliary has skin that matches midnight and dresses that sing a song of loveliness. She dances in the stars and her hair tangles in the glowing dips on them.

The stars know us. They know us. They know we’re in love. And they’d do anything to keep the two of us apart, which is why we’ll surely be blasted apart one day, through the galaxy, away from each other, away and away and away.

Auxiliary lights up the stars with her energy every night. And after all that’s done she twirls to the moon, to me, and we stare at the lighted up stars that really do hate us.

Doom for us is inevitable, and there’s no doubting that. Auxiliary knows that and I know that and doom is floating around us. It’s an aura, the doom is. An aura of doom.

Auxiliary jumps from star to star, lighting them up one by one. I’m watching her. She has so much energy. I have none.

She lights up the last one, and then flies through the darkness, her whole body glowing and humming with energy that sounds like a million songs. She twirls down to the moon like she does every night and she lets out a breathless, “Hello, Euphonious!” She does a full turn and her white dress twirls as she does so.

She always calls me by that name. She loves her long words. I prefer E. Auxiliary likes the complicated things.

We sit down together on the moon, like usual.

“Our doom is inexorable,” Auxiliary states. Her black hair is everywhere, pooling on the moon like spilled ink on parchment.

I squint my eyes as they catch on an especially bright star (Auxiliary named that one Sempiternal. She says once we’re blasted across the galaxy, we’ll still see that one star. It’ll be sempiternal. So that’s its name.) and then I turn my head to her. “I prefer inevitable.”

“Ineluctable.”

“Inevitable,” I argue back, because it’s what we always do.

“This is why we’re doomed lovers, Euphonious,” she says, because it’s what she always says.

“Call me E.”

“Never,” Auxiliary says, laying back on the rough surface of the moon. She’s looking up at the sky and her lips start moving; naming the stars.

I lay back too. We stare up at the darkness, only illuminated by the stars, our breaths light and sweet.

“We’re not meant to be together,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. Auxiliary’s tracing the patterns of the stars with her finger, one eye closed tight.

“We’ll be blasted through the galaxy,” Auxiliary says, in her normal voice. It never seems to waver. Always happy, always cheerful. “The stars will be frustrated with us.”

I say what I usually do, “Star crossed lovers.”

And she turns her head to me, beaming brighter than Sempiternal or any stars, and says what she usually does, “What a beautiful phrase.”

She gets up, her movements slow. She needs to get back to work; lighting up the sky. I stand up too, to watch her go.

“Goodbye, Euphonious,” she says, giving me a hug. She breaks apart from me first, looks straight into my eyes, and gives me a smile I know all too well: it means I love you and I’m sorry and ineluctable at the same time. I give her my smile back: I love you and I’m sorry and inevitable. “Call me E,” I whisper, and then she turns around, to run off again.

“Doomed, the two of us!” She calls, and she jumps into the darkness. “Inexorable. Ineluctable. Inescapable. Ineludible.” She says it like she always does. Auxiliary has a way with words. She’s something and more.

“Inevitable,” I add, and she smiles and runs off to the stars.
#fiction  #love  #short 
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Written by StephanieMarie in portal Fiction

My Time Underneath

The worst thing was the earth.

It was suffocating. The heavy smell of clay and soil mixed with floral hints was too thick to breath.

I tried to filter each breath through my mouth, but the dirt left a grit on my teeth. With the pain burning between my legs and the earth, each inhale was agonizing. If I wasn't already dying the ground sure would do the trick.

I could put myself in a place where the pain didn't exist.

But I still had to breath.

I had no idea when it was day or night.

The earth took care of that too.

So I started to imagine that the roots blooming across the makeshift ceiling were star formations. I took an astronomy course once, and I always loved the way the stars formed something but nothing at all. The roots did the same thing.

The way they twisted and twined through each other. They were like beautiful dancers, but they weren't.

Dancing is probably what got me down there in the first place. That and the man I had danced with. The moment you realize that you've made a mistake is odd. It's like time slows down just enough to show you where it went wrong, but not slow enough for you to do anything about it.

But I guess what's important is I got out.

Usually what's been given to the ground stays in the ground, but I wasn't really anyone's to give.

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Written by StephanieMarie in portal Fiction
My Time Underneath
The worst thing was the earth.
It was suffocating. The heavy smell of clay and soil mixed with floral hints was too thick to breath.
I tried to filter each breath through my mouth, but the dirt left a grit on my teeth. With the pain burning between my legs and the earth, each inhale was agonizing. If I wasn't already dying the ground sure would do the trick.
I could put myself in a place where the pain didn't exist.
But I still had to breath.
I had no idea when it was day or night.
The earth took care of that too.
So I started to imagine that the roots blooming across the makeshift ceiling were star formations. I took an astronomy course once, and I always loved the way the stars formed something but nothing at all. The roots did the same thing.
The way they twisted and twined through each other. They were like beautiful dancers, but they weren't.
Dancing is probably what got me down there in the first place. That and the man I had danced with. The moment you realize that you've made a mistake is odd. It's like time slows down just enough to show you where it went wrong, but not slow enough for you to do anything about it.
But I guess what's important is I got out.
Usually what's been given to the ground stays in the ground, but I wasn't really anyone's to give.
#fiction  #horror  #freestyle 
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Written by BrandonKatrena in portal Comedy

Here is a Joke that I Wrote:

The Woman said to The Man, “What are You doing to that Coin?” And The Man replied, “This Coin is a Penny, and I’m Pinching it, as someone said that I was a ‘Penny Pincher.’ And, in a Few Seconds, I’ll be Flipping this Penny, in case someone says that I’m a ‘Penny Flipper’.”

  

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Written by BrandonKatrena in portal Comedy
Here is a Joke that I Wrote:
The Woman said to The Man, “What are You doing to that Coin?” And The Man replied, “This Coin is a Penny, and I’m Pinching it, as someone said that I was a ‘Penny Pincher.’ And, in a Few Seconds, I’ll be Flipping this Penny, in case someone says that I’m a ‘Penny Flipper’.”
  
#fiction  #humor  #jokes  #joke 
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I have a passion for creation processes! Therefore I'd like to challenge you to write a "behind the scenes" text about the creation process of a piece of fiction you've written here on Prose. Some Q's to consider might be: What inspired you? What was the process like? How did you choose your voice, 1st person, 3rd person, etc. (if applicable)? What have you read, seen or experienced that influenced this piece? What are you most pleased with about it? Let's inspire each other!
Written by Harry_Situation

Fanning the Flames (Behind the Scenes of SOTF)

What is Sins of the Father?

Sins of the Father is a series of short stories that I've written on Prose. It's about a small suburban family (the Gravelys) living in a suburban town/city. The family consists of a mother, two daughters, and the new husband/stepfather, the devil in the flesh. Lots of drama, scares, and definitely plenty of laughs.

What inspired you?

There have been a couple of inspirations. One of them is the weird and bizarre cartoons I used to watch as a kid. But what really got me to flesh it out was the challenges generated on Prose that helped pave the way for my imagination to craft these stories. The first story, "A Dark Request", was written for some Flash Fiction challenge, and apparently that got a lot of hits. Then things took off from there with more stories set in this universe and more characters added with each new story.

What helped influence these pieces?

The show Lucifer has been the biggest influence to me. I love how the devil is portrayed in that show, and in a way I transpired that into my devil in the stories. Better yet, they are more like parodies of Lucifer the show, kinda like how the ninja turtles were a parody of the Daredevil comics. Other influences include the Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy and the Beetlejuice cartoon in just how this world works when regular people come face to face with the supernatural.

Some names are obviously taken from other media, scriptures, and mythologies as a callback to them. Rosemary is a play on the character from Rosemary's baby, Regan is a callback to the possessed girl from the Exorcist, even the street they live on is called 999 Milton Avenue. 999 upside down is the number of the beast, and Milton is a reference to John Milton, writer of Paradise Lost.

Characters like Lilith, Moloch, Mike, Gabi, and Legion are based on the ones from angel/demon theology. But to make them all stand out from what they are described in other media, I had to generate all new personalities that no one would ever think of for these characters. For example, I had the archangel Gabriel and crafted her as a woman with a wild side, and she is also a lesbian. Two things that will definitely piss off the fundamentalist readers (lol). 

What was the process like?

The process has been all over the place. Sometimes I'm have a 150-300 very short flash fiction story, or sometimes I will have a whole short story divided into parts because it's a lot easier for me to write that way. Heck, I'm working on Season Two stories right now with the "God's Little Princess" arc, which is probably going to be the longest arc yet with how much content I want to do.

What are you most pleased with about it?

I'm pleased with the positive feedback I'm getting. Even some prosers, who've are devoutly religious, have admitted that they greatly enjoyed these stories. Either I'm doing something right, or people are just as crazy as I am (lol). 

Which story has been your favorite so far?

Oh dang that's a tough one. I really liked writing "The Serpent" because a lot of people associate the devil with snakes, but in this story he freaks when he meets the new family pet python Slinky.

"The Babysitter" is another one I like. With that one I had the perfect set up that starts off very creepy, but by the end there's a great comedic payoff. Plus I got to use Lilith in the best way possible.

I enjoyed writing the story arcs "Brothers", "When a Demon Met An Angel", and "Keep to the Road". With "Brothers" I got to do something that no one ever thought of; have Michael and Lucifer reconcile. In the Bible it just states that they fought and that's it. What was the cause? What's the emotion? How did they feel about this? So I gave them a chance to talk things over and they became brothers again. 

"When a Demon Met An Angel" is a cute story arc. Basically it introduces one of the recurring characters Dominic, who befriends Rosemary and develops a boyhood crush on her; and who knows maybe Rosemary has the same feelings for him but I won't say (lol).

And oh boy, "Keep to the Road" is the darkest story I ever wrote. This introduces the readers and the characters (Rosemary and Regan) to the recurring antagonists of the series, the scavengers. The scavengers were kind of what I always imagined demons were when I was a kid. They're just these disgusting, deformed, feral creatures that all they do is kill and eat, and their hunger is just never satisfied. They're the lowest of the low, and they are most dangerous when they're hunger, which they always are. 

It also got me a chance to introduce what the devil actually looks like, what his demonic form looks like. This was also how I imagined the devil as a kid. Just this giant dragon/godzilla monster that breathes fire and acts like the apex predator. Everyone and everything is afraid of this beast with good reason.

But if I have to go with a favorite in all of Season 1 it would have to be "Sympathy from the Devil". This story is so down to earth, sort of speak. It's just a moment where Lu is not portrayed like the typical devil, but more like an actual parent. He's just there comforting his sadden stepdaughter who deeply misses her real dad. Out of all the stories, this one received the most likes out of all of them.

Do you have a favorite character?

Yes. I think it would have to be Lilith. She's just a very fun and sexy character. Or maybe my favorite is Legion. He's kind of the Yoda/Gul'dan of the series, very old and very powerful. But he's also very mysterious, you just don't know much about him or where his allegiances lie. 

What could you have done differently?

I wish I couldn't be so repetitive at times with my writing. I also wish I could be more descriptive when it comes to emotions or actions. Also I wish I could add illustrations to these stories just to bring more life into them, but sadly I'm not much of an artist or illustrator. Hopeful I can learn how to do so.

What do you hope will transpire from this?

I hope more and more folks read these stories because they are a lot of fun. I hope people with check out the complete first season, available in the Prose Bookstore. Heck, one day I hope that some agency picks up on it and we can add more stuff to the stories; maybe even turn it into an animated series. 

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I have a passion for creation processes! Therefore I'd like to challenge you to write a "behind the scenes" text about the creation process of a piece of fiction you've written here on Prose. Some Q's to consider might be: What inspired you? What was the process like? How did you choose your voice, 1st person, 3rd person, etc. (if applicable)? What have you read, seen or experienced that influenced this piece? What are you most pleased with about it? Let's inspire each other!
Written by Harry_Situation
Fanning the Flames (Behind the Scenes of SOTF)
What is Sins of the Father?
Sins of the Father is a series of short stories that I've written on Prose. It's about a small suburban family (the Gravelys) living in a suburban town/city. The family consists of a mother, two daughters, and the new husband/stepfather, the devil in the flesh. Lots of drama, scares, and definitely plenty of laughs.

What inspired you?
There have been a couple of inspirations. One of them is the weird and bizarre cartoons I used to watch as a kid. But what really got me to flesh it out was the challenges generated on Prose that helped pave the way for my imagination to craft these stories. The first story, "A Dark Request", was written for some Flash Fiction challenge, and apparently that got a lot of hits. Then things took off from there with more stories set in this universe and more characters added with each new story.

What helped influence these pieces?
The show Lucifer has been the biggest influence to me. I love how the devil is portrayed in that show, and in a way I transpired that into my devil in the stories. Better yet, they are more like parodies of Lucifer the show, kinda like how the ninja turtles were a parody of the Daredevil comics. Other influences include the Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy and the Beetlejuice cartoon in just how this world works when regular people come face to face with the supernatural.

Some names are obviously taken from other media, scriptures, and mythologies as a callback to them. Rosemary is a play on the character from Rosemary's baby, Regan is a callback to the possessed girl from the Exorcist, even the street they live on is called 999 Milton Avenue. 999 upside down is the number of the beast, and Milton is a reference to John Milton, writer of Paradise Lost.

Characters like Lilith, Moloch, Mike, Gabi, and Legion are based on the ones from angel/demon theology. But to make them all stand out from what they are described in other media, I had to generate all new personalities that no one would ever think of for these characters. For example, I had the archangel Gabriel and crafted her as a woman with a wild side, and she is also a lesbian. Two things that will definitely piss off the fundamentalist readers (lol). 

What was the process like?
The process has been all over the place. Sometimes I'm have a 150-300 very short flash fiction story, or sometimes I will have a whole short story divided into parts because it's a lot easier for me to write that way. Heck, I'm working on Season Two stories right now with the "God's Little Princess" arc, which is probably going to be the longest arc yet with how much content I want to do.

What are you most pleased with about it?
I'm pleased with the positive feedback I'm getting. Even some prosers, who've are devoutly religious, have admitted that they greatly enjoyed these stories. Either I'm doing something right, or people are just as crazy as I am (lol). 

Which story has been your favorite so far?
Oh dang that's a tough one. I really liked writing "The Serpent" because a lot of people associate the devil with snakes, but in this story he freaks when he meets the new family pet python Slinky.

"The Babysitter" is another one I like. With that one I had the perfect set up that starts off very creepy, but by the end there's a great comedic payoff. Plus I got to use Lilith in the best way possible.

I enjoyed writing the story arcs "Brothers", "When a Demon Met An Angel", and "Keep to the Road". With "Brothers" I got to do something that no one ever thought of; have Michael and Lucifer reconcile. In the Bible it just states that they fought and that's it. What was the cause? What's the emotion? How did they feel about this? So I gave them a chance to talk things over and they became brothers again. 

"When a Demon Met An Angel" is a cute story arc. Basically it introduces one of the recurring characters Dominic, who befriends Rosemary and develops a boyhood crush on her; and who knows maybe Rosemary has the same feelings for him but I won't say (lol).

And oh boy, "Keep to the Road" is the darkest story I ever wrote. This introduces the readers and the characters (Rosemary and Regan) to the recurring antagonists of the series, the scavengers. The scavengers were kind of what I always imagined demons were when I was a kid. They're just these disgusting, deformed, feral creatures that all they do is kill and eat, and their hunger is just never satisfied. They're the lowest of the low, and they are most dangerous when they're hunger, which they always are. 

It also got me a chance to introduce what the devil actually looks like, what his demonic form looks like. This was also how I imagined the devil as a kid. Just this giant dragon/godzilla monster that breathes fire and acts like the apex predator. Everyone and everything is afraid of this beast with good reason.

But if I have to go with a favorite in all of Season 1 it would have to be "Sympathy from the Devil". This story is so down to earth, sort of speak. It's just a moment where Lu is not portrayed like the typical devil, but more like an actual parent. He's just there comforting his sadden stepdaughter who deeply misses her real dad. Out of all the stories, this one received the most likes out of all of them.

Do you have a favorite character?
Yes. I think it would have to be Lilith. She's just a very fun and sexy character. Or maybe my favorite is Legion. He's kind of the Yoda/Gul'dan of the series, very old and very powerful. But he's also very mysterious, you just don't know much about him or where his allegiances lie. 

What could you have done differently?
I wish I couldn't be so repetitive at times with my writing. I also wish I could be more descriptive when it comes to emotions or actions. Also I wish I could add illustrations to these stories just to bring more life into them, but sadly I'm not much of an artist or illustrator. Hopeful I can learn how to do so.

What do you hope will transpire from this?
I hope more and more folks read these stories because they are a lot of fun. I hope people with check out the complete first season, available in the Prose Bookstore. Heck, one day I hope that some agency picks up on it and we can add more stuff to the stories; maybe even turn it into an animated series. 
#fiction  #education  #behindthescenes  #sinsofthefather 
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Chapter 16 of Lost and Found
Written by MarkOlmsted in portal Flash Fiction

Honesty

His were modern parents, for that part of the world. Not that they rejected the idea of arranged marriage—it had, after all, worked rather well for them. But they remembered how difficult it had been to go from strangers to husband and wife literally overnight, and they saw no harm in allowing their son and his prospective bride to write to each other during their engagement.

Amir would be getting his graduate degree in the United States, as Fatima pursued her studies at home. Fatima’s mother, a widow, was agreeable. She wasn’t likely to resist anything that would help guarantee the marriage, which all agreed would take place upon Amir’s return. After a few brief, chaperoned, and heavily circumscribed conversations--they made a pretty couple, everybody said-- Amir left for the United States.

Almost from the moment of unpacking his suitcase, New York intoxicated Amir. He’d vacationed in Paris, but that was with his family when he was 14. The closest he’d come to this kind of freedom was a weekend in Dubai with his cousins as a graduation present. By the time he received his first letter from Fatima, he was already engaged in fantasies of leaving the Middle East entirely.

Of course Amir did not tell Fatima any of this, when he finally wrote her. He kept a balance between wanting to appear modern—it was, after all, 1986—and wanting to respect the traditions he’d grown up with. So at first he spoke generally about the differences in the educational and political system, about the architecture, about the art and the museums. He only touched a bit on the vast differences in cultures. It was impossible to discuss such things without inching up against basic issues of propriety, after all.

Her letters exhibited an intense curiosity. She either knew very little or much more than she let on—he couldn’t decide which. Her father had been an English professor at the University, like his own. She’d probably grown up with a lot more books than one would find in the average household. She had to know the answers to some of the questions she asked, but then again, perhaps not. It was a much different thing to know, for example, that male and female students attended class together than to know what it was like for him to be seated next to a person of the opposite sex.

She didn’t ask that question quite so directly of course, but he knew what she was getting at. On the one hand, he was slightly shocked, on the other, he imagined she didn’t want him to think by marrying her he was going to be saddled by someone who had no sense of life in the wider world. He felt flattered, almost responsible for her education. And as he started to get to know women in New York in a way that would never have been available to him back home, he was able to think of Fatima differently. He imagined what she might have been like if she’d grown up in the West, and felt sorry for her. He even started to enjoy the sense that she was living vicariously through him.

Up to a point, of course. You see, Amir was very good-looking, in fact, Andy, one of his new friends called him “Omar” – for Omar Sharif. And he had his own apartment—his father interpreted for one of the royal family and they’d insisted Amir stay in one of their many New York pied-a-terres. The women—for there’d started to be women—assumed he came from a wealthy family and he did nothing to disabuse them of their fantasy. Andy had also introduced him to vodka—good Russian and Swedish vodkas. And a little cocaine now and then. The party was on.

During the week--studying, taking classes and exams, Amir was the model of probity. He would write Fatima in English, on Wednesday nights, chatty and newsy notes that betrayed little controversial—until, that is, he started answering increasingly direct questions from her, usually about the relationship between the sexes.

When Andy invited him home for Thanksgiving, Amir wrote an amusing letter about Andy’s eccentric family—a quintessential liberal American mash of various ethnic strains that allowed him to tread indirectly into some very dicey areas, like divorce and homosexuality—Andy had a gay brother and his parents were both remarried—from a dispassionate distance.

He was a bit nervous about how she’d respond to that letter, but she reacted with cool open-mindedness, even gratitude. "I confess that I am fascinated," she wrote. "You are my  window on the world." (Amir had told her about the restaurant on top of the World Trade Center.)

"She's daring you to tell her more," observed Andy  a bit provocatively, that Friday night when they went out for drinks. "I mean put yourself in her place. Wouldn't you want to know everything about the kind of life you'll never have?" Amir had been taught that women didn't have such desires, but he knew better by now. At first it had shocked him, but now he searched it out.

He found it -- at least that night -- in the person of Lynn, the bartender at one of the new East village nightspots Andy took him to for the first time.  She flirted with Amir as she overpoured his drinks, brazenly suggesting that he wait for her to finish her shift. With a wink, Andy slipped some coke into his pocket, which Amir did with Lynn later in his apartment. A rather potent combination, vodka and cocaine. It gave him the illusion of not being inebriated at all, and there was no way around it -- the sex was hot. Lynn had to make it quick though, she had a boyfriend to get back to. Knowing that made it even hotter for Amir.

After she left, he couldn't sleep. He paced around a bit, then tried to watch TV.  Eventually he sat down to work on a paper, but found himself instead writing Fatima a long letter describing the events of that very evening, Why not? She’d told him to share everything. She’d underlined it.

He never intended to send it, of course. His fatal error was remembering that he also had two valiums Andy had given him, with the admonition to down them before the sun went up. "Party like a madman, dude," Andy'd advised. "But always get your sleep." Amir didn't even remember walking down the hall and depositing the letter into one of those mail slots you find in pre-war buildings. Down the shaft it went, plummeting 8 floors and directly into his future.

He woke up in the early afternoon with a strange and uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, something over and above the hangover. He didn't remember the letter until he saw the pen and paper on the table. He threw on some clothes and rushed down to the lobby, hoping to retrieve his folly from the mail room. It had already been picked up.

Amir debated whether to write her again, but it seemed that to contradict himself would only make matters worse. Instead, he half-convinced himself that he'd never written the letter at all, or that she would simply destroy it. There was nothing to do but wait and see.

It was his father who called 8 days later, He was so angry he could barely speak. Fatima’s mother had come to the house, distraught, clutching a letter Amir had written. His father did not have to ask if he’d written it, he recognized the handwriting. Amir’s father recounted how Fatima’s mother had asked to see him alone—an almost unheard-of request, but one for which he was grateful as it spared Amir’s mother direct knowledge of the nature of her son’s perfidy. Amir’s father shared what he’d heard, that Fatima had come to her mother sobbing, horrified, throwing herself on her mercy. “Please don’t make me marry him!” she’d pleaded

Amir didn’t know what to say, but he correctly sensed that his father’s pause was for the purpose of calming himself, not to hear any explanation, of which he could have none that made sense in any case. He continued: “You can understand, Amir” he said, slowly, methodically, as if with every fiber of his being he was trying to not physically explode, “after I read—and burned-- the letter, I had no choice but to release Fatima from the engagement.”

Amir stammered out an apology. Or did he? It was a blur. He waited for more, to be ordered back home, but all his father could manage was a curt request to finish his studies without further dishonoring his family. In the end, Amir was the first-born son. Perhaps his father was even afraid Amir would react with some sort of haughty contempt, spitting on tradition, rebellious. Perhaps he was afraid that Amir was so changed by living in the West that he would not even be ashamed. Amir didn’t really know. He tried on all sorts of scenarios to make himself feel better.

It was only after he received a letter a month later that he understood the affair in an entirely different light. His mother, in a cautious postscript that was perhaps an assertion of her right to comment on an event that had been censored for her, wrote that she had heard that Fatima was being married to an Algerian and going to complete her studies in France. It was short, almost breezy, no doubt written after his father had signed his name, but it spoke volumes.

Amir knew in an instant that Fatima had to have met her fiancé during her engagement to him. The letter he’d so conveniently written to her must have been an unhoped-for godsend. Though perhaps not entirely unexpected, considering she couldn’t have done a better job of encouraging him to write it.

Window on the world, indeed. He’d played right into her hands.

And yet, it was impossible to be angry with her. With a tenth of the freedom that all the Western woman he knew took for granted as their birthright, she’d taken control over her destiny, spinning the thinnest of straws into silk. Through his subsequent marriages and two divorces (for he would stay in the United States, and become very American indeed), Amir would never quite get rid of the nagging feeling that he could have been the love of Fatima’s life, and her of his, if only he hadn't been quite so honest with her.

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Chapter 16 of Lost and Found
Written by MarkOlmsted in portal Flash Fiction
Honesty
His were modern parents, for that part of the world. Not that they rejected the idea of arranged marriage—it had, after all, worked rather well for them. But they remembered how difficult it had been to go from strangers to husband and wife literally overnight, and they saw no harm in allowing their son and his prospective bride to write to each other during their engagement.

Amir would be getting his graduate degree in the United States, as Fatima pursued her studies at home. Fatima’s mother, a widow, was agreeable. She wasn’t likely to resist anything that would help guarantee the marriage, which all agreed would take place upon Amir’s return. After a few brief, chaperoned, and heavily circumscribed conversations--they made a pretty couple, everybody said-- Amir left for the United States.

Almost from the moment of unpacking his suitcase, New York intoxicated Amir. He’d vacationed in Paris, but that was with his family when he was 14. The closest he’d come to this kind of freedom was a weekend in Dubai with his cousins as a graduation present. By the time he received his first letter from Fatima, he was already engaged in fantasies of leaving the Middle East entirely.

Of course Amir did not tell Fatima any of this, when he finally wrote her. He kept a balance between wanting to appear modern—it was, after all, 1986—and wanting to respect the traditions he’d grown up with. So at first he spoke generally about the differences in the educational and political system, about the architecture, about the art and the museums. He only touched a bit on the vast differences in cultures. It was impossible to discuss such things without inching up against basic issues of propriety, after all.

Her letters exhibited an intense curiosity. She either knew very little or much more than she let on—he couldn’t decide which. Her father had been an English professor at the University, like his own. She’d probably grown up with a lot more books than one would find in the average household. She had to know the answers to some of the questions she asked, but then again, perhaps not. It was a much different thing to know, for example, that male and female students attended class together than to know what it was like for him to be seated next to a person of the opposite sex.

She didn’t ask that question quite so directly of course, but he knew what she was getting at. On the one hand, he was slightly shocked, on the other, he imagined she didn’t want him to think by marrying her he was going to be saddled by someone who had no sense of life in the wider world. He felt flattered, almost responsible for her education. And as he started to get to know women in New York in a way that would never have been available to him back home, he was able to think of Fatima differently. He imagined what she might have been like if she’d grown up in the West, and felt sorry for her. He even started to enjoy the sense that she was living vicariously through him.

Up to a point, of course. You see, Amir was very good-looking, in fact, Andy, one of his new friends called him “Omar” – for Omar Sharif. And he had his own apartment—his father interpreted for one of the royal family and they’d insisted Amir stay in one of their many New York pied-a-terres. The women—for there’d started to be women—assumed he came from a wealthy family and he did nothing to disabuse them of their fantasy. Andy had also introduced him to vodka—good Russian and Swedish vodkas. And a little cocaine now and then. The party was on.

During the week--studying, taking classes and exams, Amir was the model of probity. He would write Fatima in English, on Wednesday nights, chatty and newsy notes that betrayed little controversial—until, that is, he started answering increasingly direct questions from her, usually about the relationship between the sexes.

When Andy invited him home for Thanksgiving, Amir wrote an amusing letter about Andy’s eccentric family—a quintessential liberal American mash of various ethnic strains that allowed him to tread indirectly into some very dicey areas, like divorce and homosexuality—Andy had a gay brother and his parents were both remarried—from a dispassionate distance.

He was a bit nervous about how she’d respond to that letter, but she reacted with cool open-mindedness, even gratitude. "I confess that I am fascinated," she wrote. "You are my  window on the world." (Amir had told her about the restaurant on top of the World Trade Center.)

"She's daring you to tell her more," observed Andy  a bit provocatively, that Friday night when they went out for drinks. "I mean put yourself in her place. Wouldn't you want to know everything about the kind of life you'll never have?" Amir had been taught that women didn't have such desires, but he knew better by now. At first it had shocked him, but now he searched it out.

He found it -- at least that night -- in the person of Lynn, the bartender at one of the new East village nightspots Andy took him to for the first time.  She flirted with Amir as she overpoured his drinks, brazenly suggesting that he wait for her to finish her shift. With a wink, Andy slipped some coke into his pocket, which Amir did with Lynn later in his apartment. A rather potent combination, vodka and cocaine. It gave him the illusion of not being inebriated at all, and there was no way around it -- the sex was hot. Lynn had to make it quick though, she had a boyfriend to get back to. Knowing that made it even hotter for Amir.

After she left, he couldn't sleep. He paced around a bit, then tried to watch TV.  Eventually he sat down to work on a paper, but found himself instead writing Fatima a long letter describing the events of that very evening, Why not? She’d told him to share everything. She’d underlined it.

He never intended to send it, of course. His fatal error was remembering that he also had two valiums Andy had given him, with the admonition to down them before the sun went up. "Party like a madman, dude," Andy'd advised. "But always get your sleep." Amir didn't even remember walking down the hall and depositing the letter into one of those mail slots you find in pre-war buildings. Down the shaft it went, plummeting 8 floors and directly into his future.

He woke up in the early afternoon with a strange and uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, something over and above the hangover. He didn't remember the letter until he saw the pen and paper on the table. He threw on some clothes and rushed down to the lobby, hoping to retrieve his folly from the mail room. It had already been picked up.

Amir debated whether to write her again, but it seemed that to contradict himself would only make matters worse. Instead, he half-convinced himself that he'd never written the letter at all, or that she would simply destroy it. There was nothing to do but wait and see.

It was his father who called 8 days later, He was so angry he could barely speak. Fatima’s mother had come to the house, distraught, clutching a letter Amir had written. His father did not have to ask if he’d written it, he recognized the handwriting. Amir’s father recounted how Fatima’s mother had asked to see him alone—an almost unheard-of request, but one for which he was grateful as it spared Amir’s mother direct knowledge of the nature of her son’s perfidy. Amir’s father shared what he’d heard, that Fatima had come to her mother sobbing, horrified, throwing herself on her mercy. “Please don’t make me marry him!” she’d pleaded

Amir didn’t know what to say, but he correctly sensed that his father’s pause was for the purpose of calming himself, not to hear any explanation, of which he could have none that made sense in any case. He continued: “You can understand, Amir” he said, slowly, methodically, as if with every fiber of his being he was trying to not physically explode, “after I read—and burned-- the letter, I had no choice but to release Fatima from the engagement.”

Amir stammered out an apology. Or did he? It was a blur. He waited for more, to be ordered back home, but all his father could manage was a curt request to finish his studies without further dishonoring his family. In the end, Amir was the first-born son. Perhaps his father was even afraid Amir would react with some sort of haughty contempt, spitting on tradition, rebellious. Perhaps he was afraid that Amir was so changed by living in the West that he would not even be ashamed. Amir didn’t really know. He tried on all sorts of scenarios to make himself feel better.

It was only after he received a letter a month later that he understood the affair in an entirely different light. His mother, in a cautious postscript that was perhaps an assertion of her right to comment on an event that had been censored for her, wrote that she had heard that Fatima was being married to an Algerian and going to complete her studies in France. It was short, almost breezy, no doubt written after his father had signed his name, but it spoke volumes.

Amir knew in an instant that Fatima had to have met her fiancé during her engagement to him. The letter he’d so conveniently written to her must have been an unhoped-for godsend. Though perhaps not entirely unexpected, considering she couldn’t have done a better job of encouraging him to write it.

Window on the world, indeed. He’d played right into her hands.

And yet, it was impossible to be angry with her. With a tenth of the freedom that all the Western woman he knew took for granted as their birthright, she’d taken control over her destiny, spinning the thinnest of straws into silk. Through his subsequent marriages and two divorces (for he would stay in the United States, and become very American indeed), Amir would never quite get rid of the nagging feeling that he could have been the love of Fatima’s life, and her of his, if only he hadn't been quite so honest with her.
#fiction  #shortfiction  #love 
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Written by Harry_Situation in portal Fiction

God's Little Princess Part 4

A couple of days have passed by since Gabriel, the archangel and older sister of Lucifer, made herself comfortable at the Gravely residence and inside the town of Brimstone. She partook in much of the family's usual activities such as shopping with the girls, wrestling with her unwilling brother, and even joined them during karaoke night at the local bar Dante's Inferno. She found herself enjoying the company of her new human family and the company of her fallen brother. Lu didn't want to admit it but he too was starting to warm up to his sister's presence after a long millennia of not seeing or speaking to each other. To him is was nice to have a sister in his life, despite her having a little too much fun with some alcoholic beverages. 

What Gabi really enjoyed the most on earth was spending time with her new nieces. She could see why her other brother Mike liked them so much. They each reminded her of herself when she was young once. Together they hung out at the local arcade, explored the small shops in the mall, and even checked out a movie. Now the three of them are roaming the clean sidewalks and are off to their next destination. Both Rosemary and Regan asked plenty of questions for their wild aunt, to which Aunt Gabriel was more than happy to answer.

"What was your girlfriend like?" Asked Regan, only to be nudged by her older sister as a warning.

"Hey no worries. It's cool to ask." Gabi assured her new nieces. "She was pretty great. She was into meditation and anime. Heck, her and I spent the best few hundred years together. Actually I'm kinda surprised that you two haven't asked why I like girls to begin with."

"Why? It's nothing new to us or anything." Rosemary said. "Our mom's coworker is married to a man, and their daughter is a friend of mine."

"And our mommy told us to be kind and respectful to how everybody lives their lives." Regan added. 

"Kind and respectful? I like that policy." Gabi beamed with a grin. "And besides, I figured that there's more crazy, religious zealots burning in the lake of fire than there are gay people."

"Our mom said that too." Rosemary chuckled. "Okay, I got a question for you. So if Mike is the captain of the guard, what do you do?"

"I'm kinda like a private investigator. Weird, cosmic stuff happens and the Council sends me to check it out. Sometimes I get to beat up bad guys and rescue the damsel-in-distress too. Keep them coming. I like answering your questions."

"How come you don't like demons?" Regan asked.

"More personnel stuff, huh? Alright, think of angels and demons like the Jedi and Sith from Star Wars. One represents the light, the other the dark. Angels are meant to protect the innocent while demons are meant to corrupt them. Demons are also violent, selfish, and live off sin. I mean seriously, is there such thing as a nice demon?"

"Lilith is nice." Regan spoke up.

"Yeah, and so's our friend Dominic." Rosie also added.

"Scrugs is nice too. Legion is a little scary but he's nice too."

"Some of Lu's workers are actually pretty nice once you get to know them. Balthazar, Ghuul, and Moloch are cool. Even Lu can be nice. Do you think he's anything like the demons you described?"

Gabi fell silent with her smile fading from her face. She remembered how well she and her brother got along, before his eventual fall. His fall from grace, his betrayal hurt their family severely, especially her and Michael.

"Are you okay, Gabi?" Rosie asked.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm fine." The archangel assured them, snapping out of her moment of depression and back into her upbeat attitude. "Hey, I got a question for everyone. Anyone hungry?"

Both Rosemary and Regan nodded and followed their aunt into a building that was all to familiar to them. Gabi held open the door and the girls walked inside the popular tavern Dante's Inferno.

"So why were you and your girlfriend fighting?"

"I don't know. She mentioned something about a drinking problem. Can you believe that?"

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Written by Harry_Situation in portal Fiction
God's Little Princess Part 4
A couple of days have passed by since Gabriel, the archangel and older sister of Lucifer, made herself comfortable at the Gravely residence and inside the town of Brimstone. She partook in much of the family's usual activities such as shopping with the girls, wrestling with her unwilling brother, and even joined them during karaoke night at the local bar Dante's Inferno. She found herself enjoying the company of her new human family and the company of her fallen brother. Lu didn't want to admit it but he too was starting to warm up to his sister's presence after a long millennia of not seeing or speaking to each other. To him is was nice to have a sister in his life, despite her having a little too much fun with some alcoholic beverages. 

What Gabi really enjoyed the most on earth was spending time with her new nieces. She could see why her other brother Mike liked them so much. They each reminded her of herself when she was young once. Together they hung out at the local arcade, explored the small shops in the mall, and even checked out a movie. Now the three of them are roaming the clean sidewalks and are off to their next destination. Both Rosemary and Regan asked plenty of questions for their wild aunt, to which Aunt Gabriel was more than happy to answer.

"What was your girlfriend like?" Asked Regan, only to be nudged by her older sister as a warning.

"Hey no worries. It's cool to ask." Gabi assured her new nieces. "She was pretty great. She was into meditation and anime. Heck, her and I spent the best few hundred years together. Actually I'm kinda surprised that you two haven't asked why I like girls to begin with."

"Why? It's nothing new to us or anything." Rosemary said. "Our mom's coworker is married to a man, and their daughter is a friend of mine."

"And our mommy told us to be kind and respectful to how everybody lives their lives." Regan added. 

"Kind and respectful? I like that policy." Gabi beamed with a grin. "And besides, I figured that there's more crazy, religious zealots burning in the lake of fire than there are gay people."

"Our mom said that too." Rosemary chuckled. "Okay, I got a question for you. So if Mike is the captain of the guard, what do you do?"

"I'm kinda like a private investigator. Weird, cosmic stuff happens and the Council sends me to check it out. Sometimes I get to beat up bad guys and rescue the damsel-in-distress too. Keep them coming. I like answering your questions."

"How come you don't like demons?" Regan asked.

"More personnel stuff, huh? Alright, think of angels and demons like the Jedi and Sith from Star Wars. One represents the light, the other the dark. Angels are meant to protect the innocent while demons are meant to corrupt them. Demons are also violent, selfish, and live off sin. I mean seriously, is there such thing as a nice demon?"

"Lilith is nice." Regan spoke up.

"Yeah, and so's our friend Dominic." Rosie also added.

"Scrugs is nice too. Legion is a little scary but he's nice too."

"Some of Lu's workers are actually pretty nice once you get to know them. Balthazar, Ghuul, and Moloch are cool. Even Lu can be nice. Do you think he's anything like the demons you described?"

Gabi fell silent with her smile fading from her face. She remembered how well she and her brother got along, before his eventual fall. His fall from grace, his betrayal hurt their family severely, especially her and Michael.

"Are you okay, Gabi?" Rosie asked.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm fine." The archangel assured them, snapping out of her moment of depression and back into her upbeat attitude. "Hey, I got a question for everyone. Anyone hungry?"

Both Rosemary and Regan nodded and followed their aunt into a building that was all to familiar to them. Gabi held open the door and the girls walked inside the popular tavern Dante's Inferno.

"So why were you and your girlfriend fighting?"

"I don't know. She mentioned something about a drinking problem. Can you believe that?"
#fantasy  #fiction  #horror  #comedy  #sinsofthefather 
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Written by Sinnabun

Goodbye Ms. Jackson

Her heart raced as his hands found hers

Her heart raced as he placed a kiss upon her cheek

Her heart raced when he whispered the one thing that was like a bullet to the heart

"Goodbye"

And then a tear fell. 

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Written by Sinnabun
Goodbye Ms. Jackson
Her heart raced as his hands found hers
Her heart raced as he placed a kiss upon her cheek
Her heart raced when he whispered the one thing that was like a bullet to the heart
"Goodbye"
And then a tear fell. 
#fiction  #romance  #poetry 
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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 kayxx

She Knew Better

The intentional grid like configuration of the streets of Manhattan is referred to as the Commission of 1811. The commissioners revered their design because it combined 'beauty, order, and convenience'. However aesthetically pleasing, the formation has a way of assaulting every New Yorker and wanna-be New Yorker alike. This assault takes place when the never ending streets serve as wind tunnels that violently whip winds through the streets and deliver what feels like literal slaps to the face.

This story happens to be about a particularly slapping wind in September. One that felt less like a slap from a drunk girl at a barcade in Williamsburg, and much more like the lasting sting only your mother's hand could produce.

Like the one I received when I was sixteen, and I told mine that she was weak. Weak for staying with my father when she knew he was sleeping with other women. It wasn't the slap that hurt. It was really just watching the single tear roll down her cheek and hit the linoleum. It crashed to the floor with what I presume to be the same force of a brick hitting concrete after being dropped from the top of the Empire State building. At the time it only hurt because I made her cry, now that slap hurts for a different reason.

It's five years later and I'm standing outside of a bar on Mercer street, with a boy I'm sure I love. He's smoking a cigarette. Malboro Red, actually.

I'm staring down at my boots. They're suede and have a pointed toe. Wearing them makes me feel like I'm cool enough to be standing outside of a bar on Mercer street, with a boy who's smoking a cigarette.

I was so focused on dodging the wind and convincing myself I belonged there, that I didn't hear him the first time he said, "hey look, we aren't exclusive or anything are we? I've been seeing other people."

I looked up, and he blew cigarette smoke into my face. I inhaled it. It felt like my father's mistakes and my mother's devastation crowding back into that pit in my stomach.

On exhale, without a second thought, I shot him a cool girl smile and said, "yea, for sure, me too.".

When I was sixteen it was so easy to see how my mother was wrong and the reasons she was weak. Even still, that night, I knew what I did was necessary. For the men of my commission I needed to make sure that I act orderly and remain convenient, so that I can be beautiful.

But by saying those words I had reduced myself to less than. I melted into those boots. I laid myself flat, preparing myself for the slaps of my future. The slaps from the city I love and all of my sort-of boyfriends to come.  

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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 kayxx
She Knew Better
The intentional grid like configuration of the streets of Manhattan is referred to as the Commission of 1811. The commissioners revered their design because it combined 'beauty, order, and convenience'. However aesthetically pleasing, the formation has a way of assaulting every New Yorker and wanna-be New Yorker alike. This assault takes place when the never ending streets serve as wind tunnels that violently whip winds through the streets and deliver what feels like literal slaps to the face.

This story happens to be about a particularly slapping wind in September. One that felt less like a slap from a drunk girl at a barcade in Williamsburg, and much more like the lasting sting only your mother's hand could produce.

Like the one I received when I was sixteen, and I told mine that she was weak. Weak for staying with my father when she knew he was sleeping with other women. It wasn't the slap that hurt. It was really just watching the single tear roll down her cheek and hit the linoleum. It crashed to the floor with what I presume to be the same force of a brick hitting concrete after being dropped from the top of the Empire State building. At the time it only hurt because I made her cry, now that slap hurts for a different reason.

It's five years later and I'm standing outside of a bar on Mercer street, with a boy I'm sure I love. He's smoking a cigarette. Malboro Red, actually.

I'm staring down at my boots. They're suede and have a pointed toe. Wearing them makes me feel like I'm cool enough to be standing outside of a bar on Mercer street, with a boy who's smoking a cigarette.

I was so focused on dodging the wind and convincing myself I belonged there, that I didn't hear him the first time he said, "hey look, we aren't exclusive or anything are we? I've been seeing other people."

I looked up, and he blew cigarette smoke into my face. I inhaled it. It felt like my father's mistakes and my mother's devastation crowding back into that pit in my stomach.

On exhale, without a second thought, I shot him a cool girl smile and said, "yea, for sure, me too.".

When I was sixteen it was so easy to see how my mother was wrong and the reasons she was weak. Even still, that night, I knew what I did was necessary. For the men of my commission I needed to make sure that I act orderly and remain convenient, so that I can be beautiful.

But by saying those words I had reduced myself to less than. I melted into those boots. I laid myself flat, preparing myself for the slaps of my future. The slaps from the city I love and all of my sort-of boyfriends to come.  
#fiction  #prosechallenge  #Itslit 
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Written by poeticasymptote in portal Flash Fiction

Inside Joke

the jester made a joke

wait, there might be two

and presented to the court

no one noticed

but the queen

and on her regal throne

she suppressed her laugh

she had to keep it in

her stomach hurt

she was nearly in tears

"Are you all right,

your highness?"

what to say?

"I just had a long day;

I'm more than okay."

sweet reply

with thanks

naught but her composed smile

when in fact

she needed to let out

the hidden hysterical laugh

but release it, she could not

amusement from the favored one

demands an explanation

yet, the joke was meant for her alone

so how to explain the paleness

and the horrible attempt

at a poker face?

class she never lacked

royal dignity intact

shoulders gracefully pulled back

Did she get it?

asked the royal fool

to himself

s i l e n c e

the regal frame

shook inside with mirth

that was never heard

of course

the clown should know better

that the queen was a bit smarter

inside joke, inside laugh

so the joke had had its worth

well, funny how humor works

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Written by poeticasymptote in portal Flash Fiction
Inside Joke
the jester made a joke
wait, there might be two
and presented to the court

no one noticed
but the queen
and on her regal throne
she suppressed her laugh

she had to keep it in
her stomach hurt
she was nearly in tears

"Are you all right,
your highness?"

what to say?

"I just had a long day;
I'm more than okay."

sweet reply
with thanks
naught but her composed smile

when in fact
she needed to let out
the hidden hysterical laugh
but release it, she could not

amusement from the favored one
demands an explanation
yet, the joke was meant for her alone

so how to explain the paleness
and the horrible attempt
at a poker face?

class she never lacked
royal dignity intact
shoulders gracefully pulled back

Did she get it?
asked the royal fool
to himself

s i l e n c e

the regal frame
shook inside with mirth
that was never heard

of course

the clown should know better
that the queen was a bit smarter

inside joke, inside laugh

so the joke had had its worth
well, funny how humor works
#fiction  #poetry  #mystery  #humor  #silence 
14
4
2
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