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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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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 jessandthesea

Adultery

The bank of mud and shells, the white bog lilies gently adrift, breathing, a frog,

not a prince, but a nightmare of hiccupping echoes, sobs, its long song from a hollow throat, and a hollower hollow, an empty house, each room where someone used to sleep, and a pond in a cemetery where they would feed the geese, the children sneaking pieces of bread meant for the animals into their little mouths.

What is it like at first, sleeping in her bed with her husband? I can't answer, or I won't. Some wife without a face, someone’s daughter, or someone's mother. In fact, all the faces are faceless, missing details a dream would. I am wading into a bog. He gives me a sunflower, a heavy and tall one that towers over me. I hold its stem in my hand until it slumps over and smacks my head, sending yellow petals drifting to the thick peaty surface. 

The moon disappears behind a cottony cloud. We are in their kitchen now. It's late. He whispers, almost inaudibly, Can you keep a secret? Not a question, but an invitation. My smile is slow and mischievous. Not guilty, not that I know of, not yet. 

A woman is crying in a room lit golden and dim. She is holding her sons while they stare off blankly into the walls. I am alone in an adjacent room, the lights fluorescent and harsh buzzing like drowned out voices, like bees knocked out of their hive.

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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 jessandthesea
Adultery
The bank of mud and shells, the white bog lilies gently adrift, breathing, a frog,
not a prince, but a nightmare of hiccupping echoes, sobs, its long song from a hollow throat, and a hollower hollow, an empty house, each room where someone used to sleep, and a pond in a cemetery where they would feed the geese, the children sneaking pieces of bread meant for the animals into their little mouths.

What is it like at first, sleeping in her bed with her husband? I can't answer, or I won't. Some wife without a face, someone’s daughter, or someone's mother. In fact, all the faces are faceless, missing details a dream would. I am wading into a bog. He gives me a sunflower, a heavy and tall one that towers over me. I hold its stem in my hand until it slumps over and smacks my head, sending yellow petals drifting to the thick peaty surface. 

The moon disappears behind a cottony cloud. We are in their kitchen now. It's late. He whispers, almost inaudibly, Can you keep a secret? Not a question, but an invitation. My smile is slow and mischievous. Not guilty, not that I know of, not yet. 

A woman is crying in a room lit golden and dim. She is holding her sons while they stare off blankly into the walls. I am alone in an adjacent room, the lights fluorescent and harsh buzzing like drowned out voices, like bees knocked out of their hive.
#prose  #cheating  #adultery 
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Written by Prose in portal Prose

Prose Challenge of the Week #65

Hello, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

It’s week sixty-five of the Prose Challenge of the Week.

For the last week, you have been writing about hilarious moments, and man, did you deliver. Before we check out who the deserving winner and recipient of $100 is, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:

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.

Now, back to the winner of week sixty-four.

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the Twisted Tale challenge is @SelfTitledKND with their piece, French Uno is Called Une.

Congratulations! You have just won $100. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.

In the meantime, you have one week to get your write on!

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

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Written by Prose in portal Prose
Prose Challenge of the Week #65
Hello, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

It’s week sixty-five of the Prose Challenge of the Week.

For the last week, you have been writing about hilarious moments, and man, did you deliver. Before we check out who the deserving winner and recipient of $100 is, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:

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.

Now, back to the winner of week sixty-four.

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the Twisted Tale challenge is @SelfTitledKND with their piece, French Uno is Called Une.

Congratulations! You have just won $100. We’ll be in touch with you shortly.

In the meantime, you have one week to get your write on!

Until next time, Prosers,

Prose.

#prose  #prosechallenge  #ProseChallengeoftheWeek  #CotW  #Itslit 
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Written by syed in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Hurricane

You were my hurricane,

I carried you in my winds.

But everytime I rose, you settled me.

And now that I am gone-

You still dwell.

-syed.aa

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Written by syed in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Hurricane
You were my hurricane,
I carried you in my winds.
But everytime I rose, you settled me.
And now that I am gone-
You still dwell.

-syed.aa
#poetry  #prose  #poem  #writing  #love  #freeverse  #poet  #writer  #typewriter  #freeversepoem  #hurricane  #typewriterpoetry 
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Written by syed in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Candles and Wine

Candles and oh that glass of wine.

I am waiting here - for a thing divine.

and I know not - why do I dwell

For it haunts me - that soothing spell

Have I lost it? Yes help me find.

Is it my heart? Or maybe, my mind.

Or is it me? All of me,

For I am not where I should be.

I find myself there in your eyes.

Im lost as oceans and lost as skies.

I am everywhere. And you are everywhere.

I can not listen, but your voice I hear.

I have lost my sight - but its you I see

And nothing else - not even me.

Or is it such that I just fell.

I want to, but I can not tell.

For the candles and oh that wine.

Is nothing but a dream of mine.

-syed.aa

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Written by syed in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Candles and Wine
Candles and oh that glass of wine.
I am waiting here - for a thing divine.
and I know not - why do I dwell
For it haunts me - that soothing spell
Have I lost it? Yes help me find.
Is it my heart? Or maybe, my mind.
Or is it me? All of me,
For I am not where I should be.
I find myself there in your eyes.
Im lost as oceans and lost as skies.
I am everywhere. And you are everywhere.
I can not listen, but your voice I hear.
I have lost my sight - but its you I see
And nothing else - not even me.
Or is it such that I just fell.
I want to, but I can not tell.
For the candles and oh that wine.
Is nothing but a dream of mine.

-syed.aa
#romance  #poetry  #prose  #poem  #writing  #poet  #writer  #typewriter  #typewriterpoetry  #writeup 
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Written by Squeakypeewee01 in portal Letters From Prison

Why Did You Hurt Me So?

She was suppose to be my friend. For a while, I thought she was. Not now.


She lied to me and put me in a situation where I felt afraid of 2 people and angry, hurt, and frustrated. My self-esteem almost broken.


I am still a person who could physically hurt those around me that treat me bad. I’ve been thinking about punching these two girls senseless. I'm glad I didn’t, because they actually think I'm a nice person.


So why the treachery, why the lie? She let me slag them off, saw me hurting and did nothing. Apart from put fuel on the fire. I’m ashamed of her. Feeling abused yet again, the rage inside me grows by the second.


What did I do wrong?

The tears freely flow down my cheeks, as I contemplated self-harm. I’ve done so well. I shouldn’t let this undo me. I’m not the one in the wrong here. So instead, I have pen in hand, expressing my anguish and hurt with words. Barely able to see the page as these droplets of misery fall from my eyes. Things have been going so well. Yet this betrayal of my trust is breaking me. I’m locked up and have no one to talk to.


I must find the strength inside of me to be the strong person I know lives inside of me.


I can hurt you bad. Hurt you till you can all but think of is ending your pathetic life, but that would make me a lesser person. Why should I lower myself to the same standards that you live by? Here I’ll sit, enjoy the thoughts that I’m a better person than my so-called friend.


Tomorrow, well that will be interesting. I plan to ignore her for awhile, then when the pain and anger has subsided, it will be time to talk. I doubt the friendship will last past this. The small amount of trust I placed in her hands has been obliterated. This is why I spend my time alone. It’s safer. I’m feeling so alone right now. Afraid of who will hurt me next. I doubt everyone’s intentions. Am I really just someone who is there to be used and abused?


There are so many thoughts, so many questions going around and around.


Saken hell. I have a fucking razor in here. It will be so easy. Painless even. The temptation so fucking strong.


A fag. I think a moment to calm these demons down is in order.


Ahhh…nothing like pure nicotine to calm the storm in my mind. Rational thoughts slowly seeping through. I wonder, is she sat in her cell laughing at me? At what she has accomplished? Was this her intention? If it was, I hope she’s proud of herself. I feel like utter shit. A fool even!


The small tokens of friendship are in my every view. They feel like evil to me now. Brought by the devil incarnate! A person of such disgustingness has wriggled their way into my life yet again. Story of my life. I let them in, then they poison me. With whom do I turn to now?


The page and pen my only solace. The memories of laughter and jokes between us fading into a mire of depression. A knife protruding from my back for all to see. I don’t want pity, or concern. I want my revenge and by the Gods, I will get it.


A lonely, desolate land lies ahead, but for who? I think for the both of us. Not only has she left me abandoned by the wayside, but she’s wrapped herself around the tree in her metaphorical car crash. For now, I’ll leave you with a thought. A chance to reflect upon your actions.


Do what you will to yourself, for me, life will still go on. To our friendship, ‘Thank you and goodnight!’


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Written by Squeakypeewee01 in portal Letters From Prison
Why Did You Hurt Me So?
She was suppose to be my friend. For a while, I thought she was. Not now.

She lied to me and put me in a situation where I felt afraid of 2 people and angry, hurt, and frustrated. My self-esteem almost broken.

I am still a person who could physically hurt those around me that treat me bad. I’ve been thinking about punching these two girls senseless. I'm glad I didn’t, because they actually think I'm a nice person.

So why the treachery, why the lie? She let me slag them off, saw me hurting and did nothing. Apart from put fuel on the fire. I’m ashamed of her. Feeling abused yet again, the rage inside me grows by the second.

What did I do wrong?
The tears freely flow down my cheeks, as I contemplated self-harm. I’ve done so well. I shouldn’t let this undo me. I’m not the one in the wrong here. So instead, I have pen in hand, expressing my anguish and hurt with words. Barely able to see the page as these droplets of misery fall from my eyes. Things have been going so well. Yet this betrayal of my trust is breaking me. I’m locked up and have no one to talk to.

I must find the strength inside of me to be the strong person I know lives inside of me.

I can hurt you bad. Hurt you till you can all but think of is ending your pathetic life, but that would make me a lesser person. Why should I lower myself to the same standards that you live by? Here I’ll sit, enjoy the thoughts that I’m a better person than my so-called friend.

Tomorrow, well that will be interesting. I plan to ignore her for awhile, then when the pain and anger has subsided, it will be time to talk. I doubt the friendship will last past this. The small amount of trust I placed in her hands has been obliterated. This is why I spend my time alone. It’s safer. I’m feeling so alone right now. Afraid of who will hurt me next. I doubt everyone’s intentions. Am I really just someone who is there to be used and abused?

There are so many thoughts, so many questions going around and around.

Saken hell. I have a fucking razor in here. It will be so easy. Painless even. The temptation so fucking strong.

A fag. I think a moment to calm these demons down is in order.

Ahhh…nothing like pure nicotine to calm the storm in my mind. Rational thoughts slowly seeping through. I wonder, is she sat in her cell laughing at me? At what she has accomplished? Was this her intention? If it was, I hope she’s proud of herself. I feel like utter shit. A fool even!

The small tokens of friendship are in my every view. They feel like evil to me now. Brought by the devil incarnate! A person of such disgustingness has wriggled their way into my life yet again. Story of my life. I let them in, then they poison me. With whom do I turn to now?

The page and pen my only solace. The memories of laughter and jokes between us fading into a mire of depression. A knife protruding from my back for all to see. I don’t want pity, or concern. I want my revenge and by the Gods, I will get it.

A lonely, desolate land lies ahead, but for who? I think for the both of us. Not only has she left me abandoned by the wayside, but she’s wrapped herself around the tree in her metaphorical car crash. For now, I’ll leave you with a thought. A chance to reflect upon your actions.

Do what you will to yourself, for me, life will still go on. To our friendship, ‘Thank you and goodnight!’

#prose  #LettersFromPrison  #fakefriends 
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Written by syed in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Sometimes

Sometimes, I am full of life.

And sometimes only half alive.

But through everything

And nothing

That I am,

I have been a part of her;

Sometimes as little

As the muffled beats

Of her heart-

Sometimes as loud

As her enchanting eyes.

-syed.aa

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Written by syed in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Sometimes
Sometimes, I am full of life.
And sometimes only half alive.
But through everything
And nothing
That I am,
I have been a part of her;
Sometimes as little
As the muffled beats
Of her heart-
Sometimes as loud
As her enchanting eyes.


-syed.aa
#fantasy  #romance  #poetry  #prose  #poem  #writing  #love  #freeverse  #poet  #writer  #typewriter  #freeversepoetry  #typewriterpoetry 
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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 allisonfan2020

In-Field Killer

Armed in rouge and a baroque persona, She - ever calculated- now had dressed in deceitful love.

And he was deeply in love; hopelessly deep...

And hopelessly loved. 

He was the stunning superlative of a natural inamorato; graciously touched and admired in whole. 

He was the muse of light, feathered consciousness in the sphere of doubt.  A virtuous spirit, he had once not felt the blossom of seduction.

He was in love. And she was dubbed Fate. 

She, dubbed Fate, and her brilliant poison was a fickle-hearted demeanor. 

She did not obliterate the hearts of grievous forbodings; 

in fact, quite the contrary. 

Twas Fate and the kindred of affection that melted a lover soft and unwary.

Her bluff- he could not convict.

Forsakenly rough and tried in passion, Fate had clamored high-headed; unparallel to the despairing betrayal.

Beds were nights, and nights were spent in beds. She did not deem one as her own, and his bed was not hers. 

He was a flower- acutely rooted in unquivering color.  

And she, a pollinating bee, quested succulence in honey. A bee unsatisfied died, but she was Fate, and she was thriving. 

Loyalty; his tragic flaw. His nature of imperfection danced around her like tease.

She was damned to be locked in the arms of his safety, but stupid, she was not nor never.

Startling vividness was the covenant of Fate, and startled she was no longer.

At least not in the arms of him.

She did not feel selfish in temptation, neither in cheat.

She was compelling and craving;

She was Fate.

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Juice
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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 allisonfan2020
In-Field Killer
Armed in rouge and a baroque persona, She - ever calculated- now had dressed in deceitful love.
And he was deeply in love; hopelessly deep...
And hopelessly loved. 

He was the stunning superlative of a natural inamorato; graciously touched and admired in whole. 
He was the muse of light, feathered consciousness in the sphere of doubt.  A virtuous spirit, he had once not felt the blossom of seduction.

He was in love. And she was dubbed Fate. 
She, dubbed Fate, and her brilliant poison was a fickle-hearted demeanor. 
She did not obliterate the hearts of grievous forbodings; 
in fact, quite the contrary. 
Twas Fate and the kindred of affection that melted a lover soft and unwary.

Her bluff- he could not convict.
Forsakenly rough and tried in passion, Fate had clamored high-headed; unparallel to the despairing betrayal.

Beds were nights, and nights were spent in beds. She did not deem one as her own, and his bed was not hers. 
He was a flower- acutely rooted in unquivering color.  
And she, a pollinating bee, quested succulence in honey. A bee unsatisfied died, but she was Fate, and she was thriving. 

Loyalty; his tragic flaw. His nature of imperfection danced around her like tease.
She was damned to be locked in the arms of his safety, but stupid, she was not nor never.
Startling vividness was the covenant of Fate, and startled she was no longer.
At least not in the arms of him.

She did not feel selfish in temptation, neither in cheat.
She was compelling and craving;
She was Fate.
#prose  #prosechallenge  #love  #infidelity  #Itslit 
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Written by Squeakypeewee01 in portal Letters From Prison

Thin Ice

Write a piece about life in prison. This must be non-fiction.


Living with so many women on a landing is heart breaking at times. So often you can hear the sobs in the nighttime, the anguish and pain of others. During the day, brave faces are put on. Hidden away are the pains, but not forgotten by your neighbors.


It’s unspeakable to keep this gossip to yourself. An unwritten rule that all dirty laundry should be on display.


It is like living on a ‘real’ Jeremy Kyle show. Boy, would he have fun in a place like this! It’s an uncomfortable feeling thinking that all the other girls are talking behind your back. It generally isn’t paranoia either. Quite the opposite.


If a pretty girl hangs out with a butch lass, you’re automatically in a relationship. No thoughts that you might just be friends.


Even being mates with someone is only temporary, until one or the other gets out. A loneliness defends upon one when that happens. Suddenly surrounded by the various groups of girls, wondering ‘where do I fit in?’ The atmosphere feels hostile and you get the sense that you’re the ‘new girl’ all over again.


I find I tend to withdraw at this stage, until someone decides to check me out and welcome me into their fold of followers.


No matter how tough and hard you feel, there's always someone who’ll challenge your supremacy. It’s a battle of wills, a line is drawn with how many girls are on your side. Almost like the game ‘British Bulldogs.’ The more people beside you, the easier it is to bring your opponent to their knees.


Even the officers stand back to watch the outcome unfold. Never daring to favor one over the other.


The separate wings fight for dominance. One must be better than the other. When you've moved from one to another, you realize, none are any different.


The drug problems inside are unbelievable. I dabbled in my early 20’s, ‘soft’ drugs like weed. Here though, is where you develop a habit. Unless you are squeaky clean, the temptation to sniff up a line or two of ‘Tex’ or swallow 1000’s of grams of pregablin, is easily gained. All for a few ounces of tobacco.


Debt builds and you find on canteen day, you owe all that you have bought. People will take the very clothes off your back to retrieve what you owe them. Soon, the smoking ban will come into play. The one vice that is afforded to us, soon to become another source of contraband.


When stress or anxiety is abundant, a fag is always a great source of relaxation. Fuck talking to the staff or a Listener. They don’t help. Lock me in my ‘box’ so I can have some peace, smoke a million roll-ups to calm down. When that option has gone, then what?


In prisons that are already non-smoking, a roll-up will cost you up to £10. A pouch of burn: £150. I’m not sure the government thought this one through!


In a woman’s prison, self-harm is at a total high. No way can it ever be prevented. Death by misadventure is common. Suicide rates are growing and small sentences are filling prison to overflowing.


Not enough staff seems to be the norm here at my prison. I’ve never spent an entire day behind my door at Peterborough. Private jails can afford to staff themselves. Government run jails can’t get people to work, but then with violence towards them on the rise, who can blame them?


Life in prison is like walking on thin ice! A mixture of respect for the hard asses and then a cautionary due to staff brings fear and trepidation amongst the newly convicted. Overstep either line and you’re swimming with the sharks.


Can you make friends, then stab them in the back? No? Well then, you’re screwed! It’s all about yourself. Only you can look out for you. If you can’t stand on your own two feet, you’ll become the outcast, the outsider, only laughed at and ridiculed. It’s a delight to many, a joy in an otherwise monotonous life.


Rehabilitation to judges doesn't exist. It’s left to the prison service. With little funds and no facilities to run courses, there is no hope for many.


Life in prison sucks for most people! But for some, we find salvation. A place to call home where never had it been before. A hot meal and a warm bed. A routine that can bring structure to disorder. It’s a chance to regain self-worth.


Some of us are given a chance. Some of us get to prove we can change. I count myself in that group. Without prison, I’d not be in a place to be able to share my failures and successes with you. Instead, I’d be dead!


It's no holiday camp like some are led to believe. It’s a society of the dredges of humanity. But give us a chance and you’ll see that even a sewer rat can become a tame and well behaved person who has deserved some respect.


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Written by Squeakypeewee01 in portal Letters From Prison
Thin Ice
Write a piece about life in prison. This must be non-fiction.

Living with so many women on a landing is heart breaking at times. So often you can hear the sobs in the nighttime, the anguish and pain of others. During the day, brave faces are put on. Hidden away are the pains, but not forgotten by your neighbors.

It’s unspeakable to keep this gossip to yourself. An unwritten rule that all dirty laundry should be on display.

It is like living on a ‘real’ Jeremy Kyle show. Boy, would he have fun in a place like this! It’s an uncomfortable feeling thinking that all the other girls are talking behind your back. It generally isn’t paranoia either. Quite the opposite.

If a pretty girl hangs out with a butch lass, you’re automatically in a relationship. No thoughts that you might just be friends.

Even being mates with someone is only temporary, until one or the other gets out. A loneliness defends upon one when that happens. Suddenly surrounded by the various groups of girls, wondering ‘where do I fit in?’ The atmosphere feels hostile and you get the sense that you’re the ‘new girl’ all over again.

I find I tend to withdraw at this stage, until someone decides to check me out and welcome me into their fold of followers.

No matter how tough and hard you feel, there's always someone who’ll challenge your supremacy. It’s a battle of wills, a line is drawn with how many girls are on your side. Almost like the game ‘British Bulldogs.’ The more people beside you, the easier it is to bring your opponent to their knees.

Even the officers stand back to watch the outcome unfold. Never daring to favor one over the other.

The separate wings fight for dominance. One must be better than the other. When you've moved from one to another, you realize, none are any different.

The drug problems inside are unbelievable. I dabbled in my early 20’s, ‘soft’ drugs like weed. Here though, is where you develop a habit. Unless you are squeaky clean, the temptation to sniff up a line or two of ‘Tex’ or swallow 1000’s of grams of pregablin, is easily gained. All for a few ounces of tobacco.

Debt builds and you find on canteen day, you owe all that you have bought. People will take the very clothes off your back to retrieve what you owe them. Soon, the smoking ban will come into play. The one vice that is afforded to us, soon to become another source of contraband.

When stress or anxiety is abundant, a fag is always a great source of relaxation. Fuck talking to the staff or a Listener. They don’t help. Lock me in my ‘box’ so I can have some peace, smoke a million roll-ups to calm down. When that option has gone, then what?

In prisons that are already non-smoking, a roll-up will cost you up to £10. A pouch of burn: £150. I’m not sure the government thought this one through!

In a woman’s prison, self-harm is at a total high. No way can it ever be prevented. Death by misadventure is common. Suicide rates are growing and small sentences are filling prison to overflowing.

Not enough staff seems to be the norm here at my prison. I’ve never spent an entire day behind my door at Peterborough. Private jails can afford to staff themselves. Government run jails can’t get people to work, but then with violence towards them on the rise, who can blame them?

Life in prison is like walking on thin ice! A mixture of respect for the hard asses and then a cautionary due to staff brings fear and trepidation amongst the newly convicted. Overstep either line and you’re swimming with the sharks.

Can you make friends, then stab them in the back? No? Well then, you’re screwed! It’s all about yourself. Only you can look out for you. If you can’t stand on your own two feet, you’ll become the outcast, the outsider, only laughed at and ridiculed. It’s a delight to many, a joy in an otherwise monotonous life.

Rehabilitation to judges doesn't exist. It’s left to the prison service. With little funds and no facilities to run courses, there is no hope for many.

Life in prison sucks for most people! But for some, we find salvation. A place to call home where never had it been before. A hot meal and a warm bed. A routine that can bring structure to disorder. It’s a chance to regain self-worth.

Some of us are given a chance. Some of us get to prove we can change. I count myself in that group. Without prison, I’d not be in a place to be able to share my failures and successes with you. Instead, I’d be dead!

It's no holiday camp like some are led to believe. It’s a society of the dredges of humanity. But give us a chance and you’ll see that even a sewer rat can become a tame and well behaved person who has deserved some respect.

#prose  #LettersFromPrison  #prisonlife 
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Written by Squeakypeewee01 in portal Letters From Prison

My Grandparents

On the 26th, March 2017, I had a visit from my grandparents. It’s the first time in a while they have been able to travel to come and see me.


Upon entering the visits area, I saw them sat waiting for me to join them. I took a moments pause to straighten my outfit, making sure I looked presentable. Looking up, my granddad was the first to see me. His beaming smile made me rush forward and we embraced each other. It’s the best hug I’ve ever had in my life. I looked him in the eyes and saw the granddad I’ve known since my childhood days.


There was no judgement there, about where our meeting was taking place. Only a love so profound that it brought a tear to my eye. What an amazing man. A man I truly adore.


As we sat, I thought there would be an uncomfortable silence, but the conversation between the two of us flowed, like we see each other every day. Then my gran came into play.


Bless her. She is such an amazing and inspiring woman. At 80 years old, she only looks 70. She be granddad, despite their age, live a healthy lifestyle and it shows. Although their hair is white, they have energy. Taking walks every day, going for coffee in the city, no matter what, come rain or shine, they do it.


My gran has a memory like a sieve. My granddad has cancer, but it does not stop them from visiting me. All that I’ve gone through in the 6 ½ years in prison, they accept. They worry, as grandparents do, but they are proud of how far I’ve come.


From an aggressive background, they know my past. The abuse I've suffered, upsets them, but they can see I’m not going to let that life pull me down.


As the visit progressed, we chatted about all the antics that I used to get into as a kid. We laughed so much that tears flowed down our faces. For such an age gap between us, we have so much in common. I joked and said “Well, it’s clear I’m not adopted. We are as daft as each other.”


Munching on crisps and Diet Coke, we mulled over why I look like a boy so much. My poor gran thinks I want to actually be a man. Sorry blokes, but hell no, thanks! My homosexuality baffles them, but it’s a generation thing, and they don’t judge me for my life choices.


As the visit needed the end, we were laughing and crying out. It became difficult to end the parting. Although we will see each other again soon, letting them go was hard. Probably more so for them, knowing I’d be going back to my lonely cell to be locked up. We gave each other another big hug, and they promised to come back in a few weeks. A promise I know they will keep.


These moments are so very precious to me. They keep my spirits lifted. To show them the kind and gentle person I know I am, makes me feel good. One day, I’ll be able to visit them. Now that’s a good worth striving for.


Even though they won’t be around forever, I cherish every second we have together. My grandparents love me, but most of all, they respect me, even though I’m in prison. Gran, granddad, this is for you. My writing your may never see, but your love towards me is more than anyone could ask for.


I love you with all my heart.xxx


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Written by Squeakypeewee01 in portal Letters From Prison
My Grandparents
On the 26th, March 2017, I had a visit from my grandparents. It’s the first time in a while they have been able to travel to come and see me.

Upon entering the visits area, I saw them sat waiting for me to join them. I took a moments pause to straighten my outfit, making sure I looked presentable. Looking up, my granddad was the first to see me. His beaming smile made me rush forward and we embraced each other. It’s the best hug I’ve ever had in my life. I looked him in the eyes and saw the granddad I’ve known since my childhood days.

There was no judgement there, about where our meeting was taking place. Only a love so profound that it brought a tear to my eye. What an amazing man. A man I truly adore.

As we sat, I thought there would be an uncomfortable silence, but the conversation between the two of us flowed, like we see each other every day. Then my gran came into play.

Bless her. She is such an amazing and inspiring woman. At 80 years old, she only looks 70. She be granddad, despite their age, live a healthy lifestyle and it shows. Although their hair is white, they have energy. Taking walks every day, going for coffee in the city, no matter what, come rain or shine, they do it.

My gran has a memory like a sieve. My granddad has cancer, but it does not stop them from visiting me. All that I’ve gone through in the 6 ½ years in prison, they accept. They worry, as grandparents do, but they are proud of how far I’ve come.

From an aggressive background, they know my past. The abuse I've suffered, upsets them, but they can see I’m not going to let that life pull me down.

As the visit progressed, we chatted about all the antics that I used to get into as a kid. We laughed so much that tears flowed down our faces. For such an age gap between us, we have so much in common. I joked and said “Well, it’s clear I’m not adopted. We are as daft as each other.”

Munching on crisps and Diet Coke, we mulled over why I look like a boy so much. My poor gran thinks I want to actually be a man. Sorry blokes, but hell no, thanks! My homosexuality baffles them, but it’s a generation thing, and they don’t judge me for my life choices.

As the visit needed the end, we were laughing and crying out. It became difficult to end the parting. Although we will see each other again soon, letting them go was hard. Probably more so for them, knowing I’d be going back to my lonely cell to be locked up. We gave each other another big hug, and they promised to come back in a few weeks. A promise I know they will keep.

These moments are so very precious to me. They keep my spirits lifted. To show them the kind and gentle person I know I am, makes me feel good. One day, I’ll be able to visit them. Now that’s a good worth striving for.

Even though they won’t be around forever, I cherish every second we have together. My grandparents love me, but most of all, they respect me, even though I’m in prison. Gran, granddad, this is for you. My writing your may never see, but your love towards me is more than anyone could ask for.

I love you with all my heart.xxx

#prose  #LettersFromPrison  #grandparentlove 
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Juice
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