As the dark night falls

I look inside a strange soul

Just to see, lurking

There, barely hidden

A monster I recognized

None other than me

I reached inside it

Digging amidst the shrill screams

To dig from deep in

To rip it all out

And just as night falls again--

I wake up, covered

In sweat and in blood

My heart outside in a glass

A rotten heart of

Black monsters and all

The things that we have feared, now

Sinking into me

As I scream, unheard

By a loud, ignorant world

The demons inside

Claw their way outside

The remains of a young boy

Emerging in a

Scattered, painful cry

The land was barren, the sky was black...

And she knew that the King's Men were back

On their horses, complete with grins

They have come to conquer and win

But her people were strong, and she was their strength

To fight they would go to any lengths

So as the King's Men grew close to her land

She gathered every woman and man

And took up swords, every single one

Able to fight, able to fight the ones who would come

The Butcher took up a wieldy blade

The Healer's sons came to her aid

The Mason hefted a hammer of war

The Messenger called that revenge will be borne

Upon the shoulders of a single girl

Who through the enemy will spin and twirl

With the Dragon lending her wings

She marched on and on

The people's anthem she sings

The bloody vengeance song

"The Men of the King can wait," she cried

Hearing them knock at the gate outside

"But we will bring God's fury down

Upon the scum, they'll burn and drown!"

She raised her sword, of the best steel

Light as a feather, slick as an eel

Swept it through the brightening sky

And then, a furious roar she cried--

"Halt, whoever goes forth!

For the Lord here does not welcome you onto his land.

I am the daughter of my Lord, and thus

You will perish by my hand."

A wave of fire scorched the land

Avoiding the fort so heavily manned

Then the plague of a thousand seas

Leaving shadows of men on a broken frieze

And thus, the war for them was waged

But the tale has died through this age

So I dare you, yes you, to spread the word

About the girl who dared to hold a sword.

It's glowing, glowing

Bright and bold

Shiny

Shiny as steel,

Shiny as fresh blood spilled.

It's sharp, but smooth

Sharp

Sharp as a knife

Smooth

Smooth as the preceding words

Precedent to the lethal blow.

I pick it up.

It's beautiful, covered in gold

Old as legends told

Beauty, the downfall

Of the best, and

Of the victims.

I wave it around.

It's natural, but strange

As if it shouldn't

Be there, but now that

It was in my hand, we had

Merged into one.

It's scary, but quiet

Shadows, a cacophony

Ringing in my head,

Mixed with the

Echoes of a lost harmony.

I drop it.

It's vanishing, dissipating

Electrons simmer

It's not there, anymore, but

I can still feel the tingle in my hand

and

I walk away.

After a very brief hiatus for Christmas and the New Year, we’re pleased to be say that our Friday Feature is back on again for 2016. This week we showcase another Proser and probe them for details about themselves and the things they love.

This week we talk to Matthew Hilton, who is on theprose.com under the username of @MattHilton

Matt lives in the hills south east of Toulouse, France in Europe (yes, we’re jealous) and he is lucky enough to be able to tell us that his occupation is a Writer.

We ask him, like we do everyone, what his relationship is with writing and how it’s evolved. He explains: “My relationship with writing began twenty years ago when I took a trip on a cargo boat into the Baltic. At that time I was known for my graphic artworks and on board that ship I engraved metal plates to print up later. But I also kept a journal in parallel and when I got back on shore it was published with the images as Flagships for New Reaches.”

“Why I say the relationship began then is because, in my caravan on the coast under the rattling rain I got, for the first time, a critical distance away from the surface of my prose as I worked on drafts.”

“The life walked in and stole my thunder for a while and it wasn`t until quite a time after that I had another serious wrestling match with text - and this time it was in French. As part of an exhibition I produced a five thousand word account of my arrival in France; was I an immigrant, an expat or an exile? The process went from my first draft in English to a translation collaboration and then into a full re-write by me in French. Satisfying. The booklet was called De La Franqui à Ramonville. As a result of that work I was offered the chance to do an artists book and I ransacked my life for a series of erotic episodes, published under the title My way of loving Beasts.”

“The fate fell on me with a thunk. I was a volunteer at an Amnesty International Booksale and had the right to pick myself a book. My hand fell on Gangs and Countergangs an account of the Mau Mau rebellion in British held Kenya in the 1950`s. You could say I dropped everything; opening the book at a photo of a gang blacked up and dressed in thrift store disguises I said "Opera". I let most of my life drop away for several years while I struggled with the material. It is now in the hands of Australian composer Taran Carter & we are looking to produce asMau Mau - the Opera.”

“By now I had stopped my art stuff, the process of physically transforming materials started to sicken me, and I set off into my first full length book Heavy Waters. I did everything you should, bum on the seat every day, watch those adjectives and so on - but I couldn`t get a hearing for it so I self-published. And then I thought why not? At my age my focus can`t be on making a career - I have stuff I want to process, using imagination and language, and put out into the digisphere, the rest can wait; my kids can profit.”

Prose asks Matt to briefly discuss the value that reading adds to his personal and professional life. He goes on to tell us: “Reading allows me to live a million lives, other than the one I got, and in the personal relationship with the author I hallucinate inspection hatches into writing`s machine rooms.”

We ask his to describe his current literary ventures and to tell us what we can look forward to in future posts. He answers: “I have just put out Tap once if Human via Smashwords. I wrote this ebook to explore that funny frontier in the mind where there's something you can't grasp - happens pretty quick for me in mathematics. I went with this into the realm of artificial intelligence and its application to crowds, to us people type things, to the huge spaces inside ourselves available for automating. I describe it as "Earthy fiction with a scientific flavor - a tale of robots, reptiles and rezistants in thirty twelve minute chunks"”

“My next project, starting February, is currently titled Success = True. It is an attempt to create my very own America (I’ve still to visit) using as its chronological spine the story of Malcom McLean, the man who put cargo containers into our history.”

And what does Matt love about TheProse.com?

“Its clean design, its open ness, the way it makes me feel close to the people behind the glass.”

Our eternal question that ties in with our ongoing Books Before You Die feature is ‘what book do you insist everybody reads before they die?’ Matt tell us: “You mean just before? Must be the Tibetan Book of the Dead.”

We probe as to whether he has an unsung hero who got him into reading and/or writing?

“Well perhaps I could cite Chartist Edward Edwards - a former bricklayer who educated himself in the libraries of the Mechanics' Institute and was one of the prime movers of the Public Libraries Act 1850. For me, where there`s a library there`s a home.”

When we ask if there’s anything else Matt would like us to know about him or his work, he modestly replies with: “No thanks - I think I`ve blown off quite enough for one day, thanks for the opportunity.”

Thanks to Matt Hilton for his time in answering our Friday feature questions. Are you an active Proser that would like to take part? If so, get in touch at info@theprose.com

The clock struck midnight.

I stare. He's on the podium, except not to give a speech.

The guillotine's beautiful blade hangs above his head as he speaks a soliloquy I once taught him.

Every word is perfect.

He never managed to do that in lessons.

I give a proud little chuckle as he bows his head.

The crowd is silent as I clap.

Once.

He looks at me incredulously.

This is all my doing, he reminds me with his cold blue gaze, a proud little smirk on the corner of his thin pale lips.

Twice.

It's a punishment for my deeds, not yours. You will be punished, too, though... I raise an eyebrow as the executioner prepares for the much-awaited task. He kisses the air and shouts, "Salut!"

Once I join you in Hell.

Thrice.

I clap a final time, and the blade whooshes down to sever that clever, cruel head of a child from the spoilt and tainted body. I can still feel his skin under my fingers, hear him as he calls out to me. 

I smile pleasantly at the woman next to me. "He is finally dead, hm?"

She nods vigorously, fire in her eyes. "He killed my son!"

Your son was a rapist and a murderer.

The man behind me interjects, "He had disrupted all my missions!"

He does your detective job better than you do it, kind sir.

"He stole a cane from my shop!"

It was used to catch a serial killer.

"He brainwashed my children, then let them die!"

He didn't brainwash them, oh no. You did.

I give a chuckle as the murmurs grow louder.

I am the true sinner, but I will never repent.

We walk hand in hand, carrying those childish sweets he loves.

I am taller by almost a foot, but he still walks like he is the lord of this world we try to survive.

"You don't survive life," he tells me with a pout. "You conquer it."

I smile.

"I am guessing, I will conquer it for you, in your name?" I say.

He smirks and kisses me. "Precisely."

The clock struck midnight

And down went the axe

The pumpkin, glass slipper

All that was left

The clock struck midnight

And it all disappeared

Ball gown, carriage

Nothing is left here

The stars are old

And the day grows cold

And the cards all fold

And the twisted darkness grows

All that is left

Is a piece of glass

Worthless and obsessed

She runs far away...

--

The clock struck midnight

And the lone werewolf cries

Left and so lonely

He wonders if it's time that he should die

Glass shards cut into

Every piece of youth

He underestimated the

Things that love can do

Forever destined

Denied his family

The only hope

Has run away barefoot

If he wishes

To catch his Alice

Then Romeo's gotta

Run far,

            far,

                 far,

                     far away...

A long time ago, in a galaxy far away...

Roderich's hands skittered over the piano in desperate strokes, coaxing a desolate melody from the translucent keys. It didn't matter that everything was fading - he had all the notes memorised, forever ingrained into his fingertips.

The melody blurred as Roderich felt himself heat up, blood rushing and heart pounding as he slammed his hands down in a terrifying finale, a trickle of some liquid running down his cheek.

He didn't pay it any attention.

The wrong notes had gotten the best of him.

There lived a man, who was kept alive by a memory.

The substance started to slide off his porcelain cheek, splattering onto the piano. Roderich didn't heed the sign, continuing to pound, refusing to look anywhere but at the instrument.

The man loved music, above all -  the memory of when everything was solid and beautiful.

Roderich's breathing slowed as the melody softened. Everything blurred, wet and sticky, like the remains of a carcass. Which, in a way, it was. The notes screamed out.

Once, the man lost his music.

Hands came, tugging him away from his beloved music-making machine. Roderich choked out a scream and looked behind him, clawing at the pale hands attached to his own.

They were relentless, and Roderich could only watch helplessly as his piano faded into nonexistence right before his eyes.

The hands let go, and Roderich flew over, kneeling, looking desperately at where the piano used to be. A strangled sob escaped from his fragile throat and crystal tears pattered the ground, fallen from violet eyes.

The hand was on his shoulder, an arm around him, protective and nurturing.

Restraining.

"Rods." The nickname . Roderich used to hate it, but at that time he clung onto it like a lifeline.

"Hey. Stop crying. You knew this was going to happen." A hand in his hair, ruffling it, messing it up. Roderich didn't bother to push it away. Instead, he stayed quiet.

"You have to come out of the Box! I know you love that damn music of yours, but..." The hands rested on his cheek.

"Come out. Your piano's gone now, but I can get you a new one. Stenwhy, right? What you wanted?"

Roderich stifled a chuckle. "A Steinway," he breathed, his voice cracking, a ghostly whisper. "A Steinway," Roderich repeated, feeling a new life seeping into him, bringing blood to his cheeks, vigor into his eyes.

He raised his head. Ruby eyes met him.

"Whatever." Arrogance. He missed it, missed it like he missed the sun. It was his sun.

"Steinway. Fine." Roderich saw black boots in front of him. He rose, looking the other in the face.

"You'll get me a Steinway," Roderich whispered. Those eyes captured him, drew him in.

"Damn right."

Roderich felt himself being pulled into a kiss.

He smiled joyfully.

The man lost his music, but he found something better.

That thing made him truly happy.

And it would be his, his forever.

Hi Prosers, 

Last week we launched the very first Prose Challenge of the week, and what a week it was. We have had so many awesome entries and have enjoyed reading them all, and it seems that you have too. 

Before we move on, we'd just like to take this opportunity to say how great it is to see the community growing and interacting with each other. Prose wouldn't be Prose without you. 

Now, on to the exciting stuff! We have checked the entries from last week and can now give you the results. 

Your winner (chosen by the most bookmarks and reproses) is, @wakethatode with If. 

Congratulations to you, we will be in touch with you shortly to arrange payment of your prize. 

This week we have decided to give you two options for the challenge of the week. 

1) For all of the Star Wars fans out there, we thought we'd get the community inspired by one of the most recognisable sentences in film history... "Write a piece of poetry or prose following on from this sentence: “A long time ago in a galaxy far far away…”"

2) The holiday season is upon us and we want to know whether you love it or hate it... "Write about why you love or hate the holiday season."

We hope this whets your creative appetite, and we look forward to reading the entries. As per last week, the winners will be determined by you guys, so get bookmarking and reprosing. 

The links to these challenges will be placed in the comment section of this post. 

Now, let's get writing shall we?