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Prose Challenge of the Week #62

Good Morning, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

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

For the last week, you guys have been writing about a rejection, 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:

Challenge of the Week #62: Tell us the story of Lucifer, where Lucifer is a female. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit

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

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the regret challenge is @Milesnowhere with his piece, Blood in, Blood out.

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 #62
Good Morning, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

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

For the last week, you guys have been writing about a rejection, 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:

Challenge of the Week #62: Tell us the story of Lucifer, where Lucifer is a female. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit

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

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the regret challenge is @Milesnowhere with his piece, Blood in, Blood out.

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.
#prosechallenge  #challengeoftheweek  #CotW  #Itslit 
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Challenge of the Week #62: Tell us the story of Lucifer, where Lucifer is female. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 justaperson

Gone.

"Ah Luci, Luci.... Luci," the archangel chuckled. "What are we going to do with you?" The ex-angel sat there, her long raven black hair cascading down her shoulders and back. She smirked her blood red lips and looked away.

"Cast me to hell? You can't do anything without hurting Father Gabriel. You know that I am his favorite."

"Not anymore,"Gabriel smiled. "Father gave me permission to do anything I want to you."

Luci chuckled. "Really now? That doesn't seem like the Father dear I know." 

The archangel grew serious. "You don't anyone up here anymore Lucifer." That wiped the smirk off her little pretty face. The blood seemed to rush out of her face, but then it came back.

"Yes I do, brother dear." This time Gabriel's face lost its blood.

His voice cracked, "Wh-o?"

"Nobody you know dear," Luci smiled and stood up gracefully, her black suit, fitting tightly around her body. She walked closer to her brother. "Now I have a much more appointment right now to go to. Toodles brother dearest!" Luci walked towards the open door, and when reaching it, she turned around, took a step backwards. She fell out of the building with grace, and in the distance you could see large black wings soar down to Earth.

"Lucifer with the dramatic exits," Gabriel spoke out loud and walked to look out the door. Picking up his office's phone he called Father.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Gabriel waited for Father to answer.

"Where did she go this time?" a deep, gruff voice answered.

"I do not know Father. We were talking about what was going to happen to her, and Luci, with her devil eyes, and her blood red lips, stood up and left the room with one of her dramatic exits as usual."

The voice on the other line sighed. "What to do with her? That's the question we need to ask."

"I know father."

"Do you think she fell finally?"

"Let's wait an hour and I think we'll know."

-1 hour later-

"Sir!" a small messenger entered the large room.

"What now?" the large bearded man in the throne talking to an archangel asked.

"Sir, Lucifer, has fallen," the messenger coward in fear of being struck down.

"Oh good," he sighed. "Finally. She is gone."

"I miss her and all of her troubles that went with her," The archangel sighed.

The man smiled and looked around, "She's gone, and I don't want anyone to try to go after her."

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Challenge of the Week #62: Tell us the story of Lucifer, where Lucifer is female. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 justaperson
Gone.
"Ah Luci, Luci.... Luci," the archangel chuckled. "What are we going to do with you?" The ex-angel sat there, her long raven black hair cascading down her shoulders and back. She smirked her blood red lips and looked away.
"Cast me to hell? You can't do anything without hurting Father Gabriel. You know that I am his favorite."
"Not anymore,"Gabriel smiled. "Father gave me permission to do anything I want to you."
Luci chuckled. "Really now? That doesn't seem like the Father dear I know." 
The archangel grew serious. "You don't anyone up here anymore Lucifer." That wiped the smirk off her little pretty face. The blood seemed to rush out of her face, but then it came back.
"Yes I do, brother dear." This time Gabriel's face lost its blood.
His voice cracked, "Wh-o?"
"Nobody you know dear," Luci smiled and stood up gracefully, her black suit, fitting tightly around her body. She walked closer to her brother. "Now I have a much more appointment right now to go to. Toodles brother dearest!" Luci walked towards the open door, and when reaching it, she turned around, took a step backwards. She fell out of the building with grace, and in the distance you could see large black wings soar down to Earth.
"Lucifer with the dramatic exits," Gabriel spoke out loud and walked to look out the door. Picking up his office's phone he called Father.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Gabriel waited for Father to answer.
"Where did she go this time?" a deep, gruff voice answered.
"I do not know Father. We were talking about what was going to happen to her, and Luci, with her devil eyes, and her blood red lips, stood up and left the room with one of her dramatic exits as usual."
The voice on the other line sighed. "What to do with her? That's the question we need to ask."
"I know father."
"Do you think she fell finally?"
"Let's wait an hour and I think we'll know."

-1 hour later-

"Sir!" a small messenger entered the large room.
"What now?" the large bearded man in the throne talking to an archangel asked.
"Sir, Lucifer, has fallen," the messenger coward in fear of being struck down.
"Oh good," he sighed. "Finally. She is gone."
"I miss her and all of her troubles that went with her," The archangel sighed.
The man smiled and looked around, "She's gone, and I don't want anyone to try to go after her."

#prosechallenge  #Itslit  #getlit 
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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 fantastical

The Cuts of Laughter

Their laughter cut Daniel, he could feel its edge as if the blade of it kept cutting over his flesh, again and again and again. He almost wished he took the coward’s way instead and stayed silent, yet he knew the hurt of never knowing an answer did cut a lot deeper than the three girls laughter. Still, the bitter taste of rejection was harsh if it was thrown in your face or if it was a mystery that haunted you your entire, adopted life.

He tried to imagine, or perhaps hope - a bit foolishly - that Debbie did laugh a little bit less than her friends, that she was being cowardly by doing so, but deep down a part of her was at least touched that he asked her to the dance. A foolish hope perhaps.

Daniel lived in a world of foolish hopes though. He had parents that loved him, yet few days have gone by where he didn’t hope his biological mother or father would show up at his door. He was ready to forgive them for tossing him away, he just wanted the chance to do so.

There was a guilt that went along with that need though. The guilt that somehow by wanting to meet the ones that rejected him, that he was now rejecting the only parents that he ever knew and loved. Two people that loved him more than he probably deserved. But, they didn’t understand. How could they? There was a pull of invisible strings. There was a need to know. A need that cut deeper than bone.

A need that felt just as random as the pull Debbie had on him. Her smile, her kindness - up until now anyway. Even with the laughter, and the humiliation, this part of him still was drawn to her. It was just like being drawn to the parents that never wanted him. An irrational need to have a love that was...unattainable.

Daniel would head home later, his dad would know of Debbie’s answer before Daniel even got two words out. He can almost hear his dad’s response.

“You tried and perhaps I was a bit wrong, for laughter is a bit worse than a simple ‘no’, but time will pass. Your young heart will slowly move on to another girl to fancy and try to woo. Perhaps then you’ll see that you are a better man for the laughter. Perhaps the laughter showed you a side of yourself you needed to see?”

His words would make perfect sense to Daniel’s mind, even as his heart would reel from them, for his heart has been haunted by rejection for as long as it has missed the rhythm of a different heart; the heartbeat of the woman that birthed him. A sound that still haunted him beautifully in his dreams each and every night. A sound to take the edge off of three girls’ laughter, only to cut in a deeper way.

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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 fantastical
The Cuts of Laughter
Their laughter cut Daniel, he could feel its edge as if the blade of it kept cutting over his flesh, again and again and again. He almost wished he took the coward’s way instead and stayed silent, yet he knew the hurt of never knowing an answer did cut a lot deeper than the three girls laughter. Still, the bitter taste of rejection was harsh if it was thrown in your face or if it was a mystery that haunted you your entire, adopted life.

He tried to imagine, or perhaps hope - a bit foolishly - that Debbie did laugh a little bit less than her friends, that she was being cowardly by doing so, but deep down a part of her was at least touched that he asked her to the dance. A foolish hope perhaps.

Daniel lived in a world of foolish hopes though. He had parents that loved him, yet few days have gone by where he didn’t hope his biological mother or father would show up at his door. He was ready to forgive them for tossing him away, he just wanted the chance to do so.

There was a guilt that went along with that need though. The guilt that somehow by wanting to meet the ones that rejected him, that he was now rejecting the only parents that he ever knew and loved. Two people that loved him more than he probably deserved. But, they didn’t understand. How could they? There was a pull of invisible strings. There was a need to know. A need that cut deeper than bone.

A need that felt just as random as the pull Debbie had on him. Her smile, her kindness - up until now anyway. Even with the laughter, and the humiliation, this part of him still was drawn to her. It was just like being drawn to the parents that never wanted him. An irrational need to have a love that was...unattainable.

Daniel would head home later, his dad would know of Debbie’s answer before Daniel even got two words out. He can almost hear his dad’s response.

“You tried and perhaps I was a bit wrong, for laughter is a bit worse than a simple ‘no’, but time will pass. Your young heart will slowly move on to another girl to fancy and try to woo. Perhaps then you’ll see that you are a better man for the laughter. Perhaps the laughter showed you a side of yourself you needed to see?”

His words would make perfect sense to Daniel’s mind, even as his heart would reel from them, for his heart has been haunted by rejection for as long as it has missed the rhythm of a different heart; the heartbeat of the woman that birthed him. A sound that still haunted him beautifully in his dreams each and every night. A sound to take the edge off of three girls’ laughter, only to cut in a deeper way.
#prosechallenge  #adoption  #rejection  #Itslit  #getlit 
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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 ALifeWitArt

the day Nature's will provoked analytical weakness, and the self-imposed expectations revolted

Hespoke in elegant parables. With words dipped in grace, the implication behind his metaphors spoke directly to her heart. She was awestruck by the presence of him. Even the way he balanced tobacco and thoughts on the same tongue: his intrinsic equilibrium made her dizzy with affection.

And the mercy of his unconditional acceptance...when her unspoken truth tumbled carelessly from her gut, it provoked more loyalty to him than any blood oath taken by her ancestors.

They were inseparable. They spent hours of days, months, and seasons, talking about the untouchable philosophies of life. Their combined intellect bore its own form of consciousness, and they instinctually began to complete each other's epiphanies.

Their undeniable camaraderie vowed devotions of love. They believed (in their previously-agnostic hearts) that they were brought together by God.

Even their bodies were symmetrical puzzles of divinity. For the first time, the pieces of their existence (once strewn-about amongst a diluted society) fit perfectly in-sync.

Their souls mirrored the variance in each other's broken parts. But through a unified image of yin-yang darkness, glory ricocheted in contrast to their individual angst. Light was reflected and illuminated them whole.

And despite the imposition of modern-day society, together they ascribed to remain platonic. Respectively removed from the "normal" dating scene, their friendship birthed more fruit than the Garden of Eden.

They essentially retrained their reward centers to ignite a sense of pleasure not brought by sexual euphoria, but a new cognitive stimulation. But, one day, her controls failed.

A deep-rooted desire welled from the darkness within her. It slowly morphed into a delusional monster chimed Need for his touch. She fell sacrificed to sporadic fits of madness.

When she succumbed to its pulse, she reached for him with palpable aggression. Shuddering with confusion, he still reminded her of what they shared. It was "more" than instant gratification. It was real.

Despite his patient reiteration of their verbal bind, she began to hold good-night hugs a little longer. She craved to inhale his spirit, and dance ceremoniously derobed. And her inclination forced her body to press against his, but he gently declined with compassionate resolve.

Her daydreams became nightmares of their bodies devoured. And their conversations grew distant, like circular tracks with stationary cars.

She developed a false sense of need to love him on a level for which their minds could never reach. Her love became primal and its passion drove her to unconsciously attempt to circumvent their agreement.

And she felt rejected.

The Need was superficial, a harsh rejection of her wit. And with morose self-analysis, she ruminated with guilt.

The inner struggle of rejecting her cognitive purpose was something for which she would never recover. And to witness firsthand her human nature revealed, her left mind's rejection of her right mind's clarity was her terminal stumble.

And with no one else to blame, as she watched their love crumble, she weeped silent tears only he could hear.

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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 ALifeWitArt
the day Nature's will provoked analytical weakness, and the self-imposed expectations revolted
Hespoke in elegant parables. With words dipped in grace, the implication behind his metaphors spoke directly to her heart. She was awestruck by the presence of him. Even the way he balanced tobacco and thoughts on the same tongue: his intrinsic equilibrium made her dizzy with affection.

And the mercy of his unconditional acceptance...when her unspoken truth tumbled carelessly from her gut, it provoked more loyalty to him than any blood oath taken by her ancestors.

They were inseparable. They spent hours of days, months, and seasons, talking about the untouchable philosophies of life. Their combined intellect bore its own form of consciousness, and they instinctually began to complete each other's epiphanies.

Their undeniable camaraderie vowed devotions of love. They believed (in their previously-agnostic hearts) that they were brought together by God.

Even their bodies were symmetrical puzzles of divinity. For the first time, the pieces of their existence (once strewn-about amongst a diluted society) fit perfectly in-sync.

Their souls mirrored the variance in each other's broken parts. But through a unified image of yin-yang darkness, glory ricocheted in contrast to their individual angst. Light was reflected and illuminated them whole.

And despite the imposition of modern-day society, together they ascribed to remain platonic. Respectively removed from the "normal" dating scene, their friendship birthed more fruit than the Garden of Eden.

They essentially retrained their reward centers to ignite a sense of pleasure not brought by sexual euphoria, but a new cognitive stimulation. But, one day, her controls failed.

A deep-rooted desire welled from the darkness within her. It slowly morphed into a delusional monster chimed Need for his touch. She fell sacrificed to sporadic fits of madness.

When she succumbed to its pulse, she reached for him with palpable aggression. Shuddering with confusion, he still reminded her of what they shared. It was "more" than instant gratification. It was real.

Despite his patient reiteration of their verbal bind, she began to hold good-night hugs a little longer. She craved to inhale his spirit, and dance ceremoniously derobed. And her inclination forced her body to press against his, but he gently declined with compassionate resolve.

Her daydreams became nightmares of their bodies devoured. And their conversations grew distant, like circular tracks with stationary cars.

She developed a false sense of need to love him on a level for which their minds could never reach. Her love became primal and its passion drove her to unconsciously attempt to circumvent their agreement.

And she felt rejected.

The Need was superficial, a harsh rejection of her wit. And with morose self-analysis, she ruminated with guilt.

The inner struggle of rejecting her cognitive purpose was something for which she would never recover. And to witness firsthand her human nature revealed, her left mind's rejection of her right mind's clarity was her terminal stumble.

And with no one else to blame, as she watched their love crumble, she weeped silent tears only he could hear.
#prosechallenge 
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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 CAJohnson

Masks

The sadness is crushing my heart.

   Why did we have to leave? Leave the safe comforts of our home. Our real home. Not this shell of a house with no laughter to fill it. Why did we have to come here? This terrible desert where everyone wears a mask. A mask of lies and deception. But I don't wear a mask, so they see my face. They see my face and cringe, thinking it's a mask. They think I'm trying to play tough, I'm marked dangerous. So I'm alone. I'm alone in an ocean of hollow people who lie. They lie telling everyone I'm righteous, I'm perfect. But the words are hollow. While they are singing praise to they're parents, they snickering with they're friends over some dirty joke. But I don't snicker. Because under those white, sterile masks their face is rotten. From lack of sun. 

   Except for the few. The few who really are those angles, those kind selfless people. But those sheltered people cower from fire. They cower from me because I am dangerous, I don't dance on my tippy toes around people glass feeling. Because I'm not that person who fawns over they're "friends" every whim so they like them. You don't get anywhere without risks. This one backfired. 

   So what now? I'm the strange kid, marked dangerous. They don't see me at school, because I don't go there. I school at home. I'm the strange kid. The kid to avoid. I answer all the questions so I'm branded as a suck up. But I glower at the teacher when I think no one looks so I'm branded as a trouble maker. But what they don't get is the sly comments the teacher says. They only see her candy and age, so she's a sweet old grandma. They think I just talk, but I also listen. I can hear her aggressive tone when she "corrects" me. But I have to say she's wrong. She thinks integrity is connection. 

   But I have news for her, she's wrong. Integrity is having the guts and the moral to bear the treatment. To have the strength to ignore their whispers and snickers behind hands. To tell myself it'll all be over soon, that I can go home. But I can't. Because homes is miles away. Sometimes I think to myself that this story won't have a happy ending. That'll end with people poking me, and tearing out the pages of the stories I write because they don't like them. But she thinks integrity means connection. I don't know if her hearing bad or what but if it is... then I have none. No integrity. I am alone on a isolated island. While all around me people laugh and point as I starve. I am alone, a reject, outcast, useless. Every single day is a battle, and I'm losing the war. But I keep on fighting  and pray they don't see the hurt. I guess I'm wearing a mask too now. 

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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 CAJohnson
Masks
The sadness is crushing my heart.
   Why did we have to leave? Leave the safe comforts of our home. Our real home. Not this shell of a house with no laughter to fill it. Why did we have to come here? This terrible desert where everyone wears a mask. A mask of lies and deception. But I don't wear a mask, so they see my face. They see my face and cringe, thinking it's a mask. They think I'm trying to play tough, I'm marked dangerous. So I'm alone. I'm alone in an ocean of hollow people who lie. They lie telling everyone I'm righteous, I'm perfect. But the words are hollow. While they are singing praise to they're parents, they snickering with they're friends over some dirty joke. But I don't snicker. Because under those white, sterile masks their face is rotten. From lack of sun. 
   Except for the few. The few who really are those angles, those kind selfless people. But those sheltered people cower from fire. They cower from me because I am dangerous, I don't dance on my tippy toes around people glass feeling. Because I'm not that person who fawns over they're "friends" every whim so they like them. You don't get anywhere without risks. This one backfired. 
   So what now? I'm the strange kid, marked dangerous. They don't see me at school, because I don't go there. I school at home. I'm the strange kid. The kid to avoid. I answer all the questions so I'm branded as a suck up. But I glower at the teacher when I think no one looks so I'm branded as a trouble maker. But what they don't get is the sly comments the teacher says. They only see her candy and age, so she's a sweet old grandma. They think I just talk, but I also listen. I can hear her aggressive tone when she "corrects" me. But I have to say she's wrong. She thinks integrity is connection. 
   But I have news for her, she's wrong. Integrity is having the guts and the moral to bear the treatment. To have the strength to ignore their whispers and snickers behind hands. To tell myself it'll all be over soon, that I can go home. But I can't. Because homes is miles away. Sometimes I think to myself that this story won't have a happy ending. That'll end with people poking me, and tearing out the pages of the stories I write because they don't like them. But she thinks integrity means connection. I don't know if her hearing bad or what but if it is... then I have none. No integrity. I am alone on a isolated island. While all around me people laugh and point as I starve. I am alone, a reject, outcast, useless. Every single day is a battle, and I'm losing the war. But I keep on fighting  and pray they don't see the hurt. I guess I'm wearing a mask too now. 
#prosechallenge  #culture  #opinion  #getlit 
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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 Jasper

Abby

It was a typical Saturday afternoon for Abby and her three best friends. After going to the theater, they went to their favorite coffee shop to gossip about any attractive moviegoers of the opposite gender. This time it was Clark and Ben, two seniors from their high school.

Mid conversation, Abby pushed her chair away from the table, standing up with a weak smile and an underlying sadness that her friends chose to ignore. Chelsea just kept on chatting about how she thought Ben was the hottest boy she’d ever seen. Just as Abby walked away she heard Chelsea exclaim, “If he asked me out, I’d totally do it with him!” Followed by a crescendo of giggles and Oh My Gosh’s from Kate and Sophie.

It wasn’t that Abby didn’t agree that Ben was the hottest, most popular boy in school; it was just that they had a different history. The last time she’d had direct contact with him had been four years ago, one year after she’d begun transitioning, and long before anyone besides her family and three best friends had accepted her. On a typical day filled with teen angst, pain and embarrassment, Abby had walked down the history-building hallway and crossed paths with Ben’s group of friends standing by his locker. As soon as she had passed them, Ben exclaimed, “Hey, Andrew!” then burst into knee-slapping laughter with the rest of the guys.

He had used her dead name. The first time someone had in months. It was all she could do to hasten her pace to get out of the building before bursting into tears. She never told her friends, so she couldn’t blame them for thinking Ben was a great guy.

The memory swirled through her mind as she made her way through the coffee shop alive with the whirring of espresso machines and the chitter-chatter of baristas. While walking, she side glanced at an elderly couple whispering at their table. Whether or not she was correct didn’t matter, her heart started to race and her cheeks flushed as she imagined them discussing her uncertain appearance.

She swept her long brown and purple highlighted hair behind her ear and looked at her feet, focusing on the tile floor as she walked the rest of the distance to the bathroom. Now came her most difficult decision of the day. To reject the person she knows she is deep within her soul or to chance being rejected for using the ‘wrong’ bathroom.

Abby took a deep breath, looked at the silly blue sign with the triangle person on it and pushed open the door, seriously hoping that no one else was in the bathroom today.

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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 Jasper
Abby
It was a typical Saturday afternoon for Abby and her three best friends. After going to the theater, they went to their favorite coffee shop to gossip about any attractive moviegoers of the opposite gender. This time it was Clark and Ben, two seniors from their high school.

Mid conversation, Abby pushed her chair away from the table, standing up with a weak smile and an underlying sadness that her friends chose to ignore. Chelsea just kept on chatting about how she thought Ben was the hottest boy she’d ever seen. Just as Abby walked away she heard Chelsea exclaim, “If he asked me out, I’d totally do it with him!” Followed by a crescendo of giggles and Oh My Gosh’s from Kate and Sophie.

It wasn’t that Abby didn’t agree that Ben was the hottest, most popular boy in school; it was just that they had a different history. The last time she’d had direct contact with him had been four years ago, one year after she’d begun transitioning, and long before anyone besides her family and three best friends had accepted her. On a typical day filled with teen angst, pain and embarrassment, Abby had walked down the history-building hallway and crossed paths with Ben’s group of friends standing by his locker. As soon as she had passed them, Ben exclaimed, “Hey, Andrew!” then burst into knee-slapping laughter with the rest of the guys.

He had used her dead name. The first time someone had in months. It was all she could do to hasten her pace to get out of the building before bursting into tears. She never told her friends, so she couldn’t blame them for thinking Ben was a great guy.

The memory swirled through her mind as she made her way through the coffee shop alive with the whirring of espresso machines and the chitter-chatter of baristas. While walking, she side glanced at an elderly couple whispering at their table. Whether or not she was correct didn’t matter, her heart started to race and her cheeks flushed as she imagined them discussing her uncertain appearance.

She swept her long brown and purple highlighted hair behind her ear and looked at her feet, focusing on the tile floor as she walked the rest of the distance to the bathroom. Now came her most difficult decision of the day. To reject the person she knows she is deep within her soul or to chance being rejected for using the ‘wrong’ bathroom.

Abby took a deep breath, looked at the silly blue sign with the triangle person on it and pushed open the door, seriously hoping that no one else was in the bathroom today.
#fiction  #nonfiction  #prosechallenge  #politics  #culture 
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Written by Prose in portal Prose

Challenge of the Week #61

Good Afternoon, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

It’s week sixty-one of the Prose Challenge of the Week, but before we unveil the winner of last week’s challenge and this week’s newest prompt, we’d like to set you all another challenge. As most of you are aware, each month we set a Challenge of the Month prompt where the winning entries get put in a Prose Original Book with each entrant getting a set share of the lifetime royalties. Last month the prompt was to write about being the most intelligent human being on earth. We have picked the winners, and are almost ready to publish the book. However, we have decided to task you creative bunch with creating the cover. If you think your creative expertise can create a Prose Original Book cover, here’s what you need to do.

1) Create a book cover with copyright-free images, with the following copy on, in this order:

Intelligence.

A Prose Original Book

Designed by @YOURUSERNAME

2) Send it along with your username to info@theprose.com

3) We will look over the entries and the top-10 designs will be featured on our blog, with the top entry being our book cover.

You have one week. Entries close 26th March 12am PST. If you snooze, you lose, but next month's challenge will give you a fresh chance to make a gorgeous cover.

We can’t wait to see the design-candy.

Right, back to the Challenge of the Week.

For the last week, you guys have been writing about a new life form, 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:

Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit

Now, back to the winner of week sixty.

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the lifeform challenge is @DrSemicolon with their piece, Native Martian Anatomy and Physiology.

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
Challenge of the Week #61
Good Afternoon, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

It’s week sixty-one of the Prose Challenge of the Week, but before we unveil the winner of last week’s challenge and this week’s newest prompt, we’d like to set you all another challenge. As most of you are aware, each month we set a Challenge of the Month prompt where the winning entries get put in a Prose Original Book with each entrant getting a set share of the lifetime royalties. Last month the prompt was to write about being the most intelligent human being on earth. We have picked the winners, and are almost ready to publish the book. However, we have decided to task you creative bunch with creating the cover. If you think your creative expertise can create a Prose Original Book cover, here’s what you need to do.

1) Create a book cover with copyright-free images, with the following copy on, in this order:
Intelligence.
A Prose Original Book
Designed by @YOURUSERNAME
2) Send it along with your username to info@theprose.com
3) We will look over the entries and the top-10 designs will be featured on our blog, with the top entry being our book cover.

You have one week. Entries close 26th March 12am PST. If you snooze, you lose, but next month's challenge will give you a fresh chance to make a gorgeous cover.

We can’t wait to see the design-candy.

Right, back to the Challenge of the Week.

For the last week, you guys have been writing about a new life form, 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:


Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit

Now, back to the winner of week sixty.

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the lifeform challenge is @DrSemicolon with their piece, Native Martian Anatomy and Physiology.

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.


#prosechallenge  #CotW  #Itslit  #getlit 
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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 a060147

death of a private

"But I'm still here," she muses, her voice barely a rasp. The shot glass rolls dangerously close to the edge of the table, but she sets it upright before it can shatter onto the wood. Drunk, but not too drunk. Not drunk enough to go beyond her limits. I watch quietly as she closes a little more into herself, places her head in her hands. Sighs. And then she's leveling me with a gaze I hadn't expected to be so sharp, muttering over the hum of the bar, and I find myself leaning in to make out the words.

"That book," she repeats, louder this time. There's enough irritation in her tone to root me to the spot. "The one about the apocalypse. You still have it, don't you?"

I'm not sure what she's talking about, but I nod anyway. She crinkles her nose.

"You know what I'm talking about, private. That book, that stupid, science fiction or whatever you call it --" She trails off, throwing her hands in the air, and I wish I'd actually said something. Made something up, maybe, just to do something other than try to comfort her. The liquor hasn't slurred her words yet, but it's getting there. "You know what? I don't know. Just thought you'd want to go on and on about it like you usually do. Be a hell of a lot better than the bullshit we've been through."

There's another glass in front of her suddenly, and she wraps her fingers around it before I can reach. Doesn't knock it back like she'd done to the first five, though, just sort of cradles it as she stares into the amber liquid. Wordless. The bloodstains on her uniform have long dried, the gashes on her neck just barely forming a raw pink -- but the expression on her face is the same as it had been that day. Except that she's not frozen in horror, covered in her squadron's remains, and there is no bomb, no ambush, no wound. I'm the one dragging her to the medics -- but not the one who made it out -- and there is no novel clutched to her chest as she panics uselessly, too delirious by the blood loss. The doctors had taken it away the moment they sedated her. All for the best, of course. It was probably too bloodstained to read anymore.

She smiles mirthlessly, righting the medals at her breast. "Almost as if I were rejected by death himself," she says, flat-voiced. Cold. "That was the last line, wasn't it? You were -- you were reading off the last page, I told you to shut up, and you told me you'd always keep your promise. That you'd never let anything happen to me, ever, and I --"

She pauses. Thinks for a moment. But she knows, and I know, and my hand passes through hers as easily as air.

I'm still here, she wants to say. Shouldn't you be, too?

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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 a060147
death of a private
"But I'm still here," she muses, her voice barely a rasp. The shot glass rolls dangerously close to the edge of the table, but she sets it upright before it can shatter onto the wood. Drunk, but not too drunk. Not drunk enough to go beyond her limits. I watch quietly as she closes a little more into herself, places her head in her hands. Sighs. And then she's leveling me with a gaze I hadn't expected to be so sharp, muttering over the hum of the bar, and I find myself leaning in to make out the words.

"That book," she repeats, louder this time. There's enough irritation in her tone to root me to the spot. "The one about the apocalypse. You still have it, don't you?"

I'm not sure what she's talking about, but I nod anyway. She crinkles her nose.

"You know what I'm talking about, private. That book, that stupid, science fiction or whatever you call it --" She trails off, throwing her hands in the air, and I wish I'd actually said something. Made something up, maybe, just to do something other than try to comfort her. The liquor hasn't slurred her words yet, but it's getting there. "You know what? I don't know. Just thought you'd want to go on and on about it like you usually do. Be a hell of a lot better than the bullshit we've been through."

There's another glass in front of her suddenly, and she wraps her fingers around it before I can reach. Doesn't knock it back like she'd done to the first five, though, just sort of cradles it as she stares into the amber liquid. Wordless. The bloodstains on her uniform have long dried, the gashes on her neck just barely forming a raw pink -- but the expression on her face is the same as it had been that day. Except that she's not frozen in horror, covered in her squadron's remains, and there is no bomb, no ambush, no wound. I'm the one dragging her to the medics -- but not the one who made it out -- and there is no novel clutched to her chest as she panics uselessly, too delirious by the blood loss. The doctors had taken it away the moment they sedated her. All for the best, of course. It was probably too bloodstained to read anymore.

She smiles mirthlessly, righting the medals at her breast. "Almost as if I were rejected by death himself," she says, flat-voiced. Cold. "That was the last line, wasn't it? You were -- you were reading off the last page, I told you to shut up, and you told me you'd always keep your promise. That you'd never let anything happen to me, ever, and I --"

She pauses. Thinks for a moment. But she knows, and I know, and my hand passes through hers as easily as air.

I'm still here, she wants to say. Shouldn't you be, too?
#fiction  #romance  #prosechallenge 
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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 luvtoread_21

Not Time To Die Yet

I've lived a very simple life. Wake up. Go to my job. Come home. Sleep. Repeat. Simple, yet I detested it. Now, I was never one for the fancy rich life. All I wanted in life was making an impact on others and loving what I do. It was a very small and simple thing to want. But no, life doesn't work that way.

Life makes you work hard for every second that you live. And I hate it.

"Jenna! Open up!" the landlord yelled.

I swung open the door to find the staunch small four foot woman standing with a cart full of cleaning supplies. 

She was the landlord, maid, and everything at my small cozy apartment.

She also hated everything.

I could see it in her eyes that she didn't mean to be so rude. But it was impossible not to hate her.

"Hello, Miss.Martin," I clenched my jaw at the sight of her angry face.

Journal, what would you say if I told you that I won a million dollars that day. If I told you that her angry face morphed into an incredibly beautiful happy one. If I told you life gave me exactly what I needed, and today, I was sitting with a bunch of African souls around a campfire chewing on food that was eaten by kings and queens.

Well, that's definitely not what happened to me.

"You're being kicked out," she said to me without a care. She then marched into my apartment and took my key on the counter.

"Be out by sundown." she slammed the door in my face and left.

Now, this is the fun part. I had lost everything at this point. No shelter. No money. No parents. No love. No dreams. Nothing.

I didn't even have the courage to volunteer at the local food shelter, like I usually did. Heck, I needed to go there to eat some food, not to serve some food.

What I did next, journal, was the stupidest worst thing I had ever done in my life.

I stole a knife from the apartment before I left, just in case I needed it. For special reasons.

I plunged it into my stomach.

If God willed for me to die now, I shall die. If he wants me to live, if he wants to give me a sign that someday, I will have that dream of mine come true. And someday I'll be sitting around the campfire with some African souls, singing songs about happiness, dreams and life.

If he allows it, I will live.

And I did live, Journal. I lived a happy life full of campfires and travelling and singing and eating and dancing and loving.

I lived because God rejected me.

And I understood that even if God didn't reject me, it wouldn't matter.

Because, although rejection hurts, it could lead to something much more. 

 

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Challenge of the Week #61: Write a piece of flash fiction about rejection. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. 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 luvtoread_21
Not Time To Die Yet
I've lived a very simple life. Wake up. Go to my job. Come home. Sleep. Repeat. Simple, yet I detested it. Now, I was never one for the fancy rich life. All I wanted in life was making an impact on others and loving what I do. It was a very small and simple thing to want. But no, life doesn't work that way.
Life makes you work hard for every second that you live. And I hate it.

"Jenna! Open up!" the landlord yelled.
I swung open the door to find the staunch small four foot woman standing with a cart full of cleaning supplies. 
She was the landlord, maid, and everything at my small cozy apartment.
She also hated everything.
I could see it in her eyes that she didn't mean to be so rude. But it was impossible not to hate her.
"Hello, Miss.Martin," I clenched my jaw at the sight of her angry face.

Journal, what would you say if I told you that I won a million dollars that day. If I told you that her angry face morphed into an incredibly beautiful happy one. If I told you life gave me exactly what I needed, and today, I was sitting with a bunch of African souls around a campfire chewing on food that was eaten by kings and queens.

Well, that's definitely not what happened to me.
"You're being kicked out," she said to me without a care. She then marched into my apartment and took my key on the counter.
"Be out by sundown." she slammed the door in my face and left.

Now, this is the fun part. I had lost everything at this point. No shelter. No money. No parents. No love. No dreams. Nothing.
I didn't even have the courage to volunteer at the local food shelter, like I usually did. Heck, I needed to go there to eat some food, not to serve some food.
What I did next, journal, was the stupidest worst thing I had ever done in my life.
I stole a knife from the apartment before I left, just in case I needed it. For special reasons.
I plunged it into my stomach.
If God willed for me to die now, I shall die. If he wants me to live, if he wants to give me a sign that someday, I will have that dream of mine come true. And someday I'll be sitting around the campfire with some African souls, singing songs about happiness, dreams and life.
If he allows it, I will live.

And I did live, Journal. I lived a happy life full of campfires and travelling and singing and eating and dancing and loving.
I lived because God rejected me.
And I understood that even if God didn't reject me, it wouldn't matter.
Because, although rejection hurts, it could lead to something much more. 
 
#prosechallenge  #weeklychallenge  #Itslit  #getlit 
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Challenge of the Week #60: You have just discovered a new lifeform. Write a story of 200 words or more. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Chapter 7 of Collection of Short Stories
Written by Charlton_Ghosh

Oozelles

Shay Pipkin's Biology Journal: Entry 41; 041/9,461 approximately 8155.000

Location: Orbis Aquae

General Information Chart:

Object Name: Ozzelles

Location: Like humans and similar parasites, they are found throughout the known galaxies (this study has been performed primarily on Orbis Aquae)

Description: Think giant amoeba; Physically they grow to be about 3 foot diameter spheres; Usually puce in color, although other dull grey/green colors are sometimes seen; Its consistency is rather like a blob of jelly left out on the counter; Can change color depending on creatures age and items ingested

Origin: Unkown

Current activities: Digesting things, including themselves if nothing else is available; Only known danger to them: extensive fire and/or heat; Can formulate specific acids to dissolve and/or digest almost anything; Primary source of food is unknown, they seem to thrive off of everything

Special Notes: Can let off noxious gases at will; When burned: emits toxic fumes; Can separate into many, totally independent blobs; The separation/ reproduction of oozelles is accomplished through binary fission; If the environment is stressful for a colony, they will start to merge back together (two oozelles become a single oozelle)They communicate by telepathy; Impervious to almost everything; Generally does not take interest in surrounding environment;

Shay's Observations:

Now there is a sight I never thought I'd see. A  single oozelle splitting in two. A single oozelle is rare, since they are almost always social creatures living in big colonies. It appears that this oozelle has left its colony (I assume the one 16 miles to the north) and seems to be starting one of its own.

I have been watching this creature for 14 days now. I have not yet tried to contact it. Although I am fairly certain it knows I am here watching it. It moved to the other side of the clearing shortly after I made camp in this tree. However, it does seem comfortable enough to split in front of me. I think I will be able to watch a colony grow, right under my nose. This is really quite amazing.

I should make note that these creatures are thoroughly sentient, and have communicated with humans in the past. But I am trying to watch "virgin" oozelles, uncontaminated by the outside world. So far, I have been successful. And the natives (anthró̱pino psária) of Orbis Aquae have been a great help in this regard. They had told me about the colony in the first place and they have also granted me several necessary supplies.

I intend to continue to watch this oozelle for another year if all goes well.

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Challenge of the Week #60: You have just discovered a new lifeform. Write a story of 200 words or more. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Chapter 7 of Collection of Short Stories
Written by Charlton_Ghosh
Oozelles
Shay Pipkin's Biology Journal: Entry 41; 041/9,461 approximately 8155.000
Location: Orbis Aquae


General Information Chart:
Object Name: Ozzelles
Location: Like humans and similar parasites, they are found throughout the known galaxies (this study has been performed primarily on Orbis Aquae)
Description: Think giant amoeba; Physically they grow to be about 3 foot diameter spheres; Usually puce in color, although other dull grey/green colors are sometimes seen; Its consistency is rather like a blob of jelly left out on the counter; Can change color depending on creatures age and items ingested
Origin: Unkown
Current activities: Digesting things, including themselves if nothing else is available; Only known danger to them: extensive fire and/or heat; Can formulate specific acids to dissolve and/or digest almost anything; Primary source of food is unknown, they seem to thrive off of everything
Special Notes: Can let off noxious gases at will; When burned: emits toxic fumes; Can separate into many, totally independent blobs; The separation/ reproduction of oozelles is accomplished through binary fission; If the environment is stressful for a colony, they will start to merge back together (two oozelles become a single oozelle)They communicate by telepathy; Impervious to almost everything; Generally does not take interest in surrounding environment;

Shay's Observations:
Now there is a sight I never thought I'd see. A  single oozelle splitting in two. A single oozelle is rare, since they are almost always social creatures living in big colonies. It appears that this oozelle has left its colony (I assume the one 16 miles to the north) and seems to be starting one of its own.

I have been watching this creature for 14 days now. I have not yet tried to contact it. Although I am fairly certain it knows I am here watching it. It moved to the other side of the clearing shortly after I made camp in this tree. However, it does seem comfortable enough to split in front of me. I think I will be able to watch a colony grow, right under my nose. This is really quite amazing.

I should make note that these creatures are thoroughly sentient, and have communicated with humans in the past. But I am trying to watch "virgin" oozelles, uncontaminated by the outside world. So far, I have been successful. And the natives (anthró̱pino psária) of Orbis Aquae have been a great help in this regard. They had told me about the colony in the first place and they have also granted me several necessary supplies.

I intend to continue to watch this oozelle for another year if all goes well.
#prosechallenge  #Itslit  #getlit 
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