In a quaint little fairy tale city

Lived a cinder-faced boy and his kitty

His stepfather beat him

his stepbrothers would cheat him

without even one ounce of pity

Every day was the same as the last

warned to finish his household chores fast

so he washed and he mopped

and never once stopped

till the hours of daylight had passed

After scrounging for something to eat

the boy and his cat would retreat

to his space in the attic

which was never traumatic

peeking down at the cobblestone street

One particular night as he spied

he saw danger and loudly he cried

"Get out of the way!"

as a single horse sleigh

and an old man did nearly collide

The old man was grateful indeed

that he'd escaped the horrific stampede

He said to the boy

I will gladly employ

anything that you think you might need

The little lad humble and kind

shook his head as he smiled and declined

I simply ask that

your gift go to my cat

that is of course, if you don't mind

Thus the cat and the old man conversed

and from that day the boy's life reversed

He was not reprimanded

No longer commanded

for his dad and stepbrothers were cursed

For a wizard was strolling one night

when a horse and sleigh gave him a fright

He was alerted in time

by a boy, face of grime

who thought more of his cat than his plight

So a moral comes out of this tale

that if hard work and kindness prevail

There may come a day

that your actions will pay

so upon your cat highly regale

Hello, Prosers,

We hope this challenge announcement finds you well and writing!

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

For the last week, you have been writing about a female Lucifer, 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 #63: Take a much-loved Disney story, twist it into an adult, kick-in-the-gut tale. Poetry or Prose. 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 #twistedtales for sharing online. Now lights, camera, fiction.

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

We have read all of your entries, and have come to a decision. The winner of the Lucifer challenge is @Delilah49 with their piece, Who is the Devil?

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.

The cliché, “If you can’t beat them, join them,” keeps running through my head.

I should just go outside and let one of the fuckers bite me; it’s bound to happen anyway.

I don’t have any skills. I’m not ruthless. How long will a skilless wimp last? I should just get it over with and let them make a dinner out of me. What’s a worse way of dying? Being eaten alive or starving to death? I can’t believe I’m even contemplating these questions.

How did this happen? This is the stuff of science fiction fantasy nerd novels. How can this be real? One little glimpse out of my living room window reminds me that the dead are walking all over my daffodils. They just bloomed two days ago…stupid mindless fuckers.

When the Emergency Broadcast System interrupted my regularly scheduled program announcing the “zombie apocalypse” had begun, I assumed it was an April Fools prank – in May. I didn’t bother listening to the explanation as to how this started, I just turned the cable off and turned on Netflix. Then I heard the screaming. I opened up my front door to witness Mrs. Connelly become an afternoon snack for a placid motherfucker whose large intestine was hanging down to his feet. If I hadn’t just gone to the bathroom I would have shit myself.

I shut the door. And closed the curtains. And picked up my memere’s dusty candelabra and wielded it like Excalibur, and thought, “ I’m going to die today.” I put the candelabra back down.

Since then, I’ve been sitting on the couch in my oversized sweatshirt with my slipper socks up on the coffee table. I realized I can make a nice hollow bowl out of my shirt and dump microwave popcorn into it (What’s the point of dirtying more dishes?). For almost two hours, I’ve been eating my Orville Redenbacher– one piece at a time - and staring at the ceiling.

I wonder if I should call someone. No one has called me. Wait, no one has called me. Not even my mother. Does that mean she’s dead? Or she just didn’t think to call me… Which is worse? I suppose, considering it took me two hours to think of calling her, I can’t be mad if she is alive and well. She’s probably popping corn too and downing every bottle in her liquor cabinet. If a zombie eats her liver it will be like eating one of those bourbon soaked oranges I love.

How can you tell the difference between a zombie and a drunk? You can’t! HA. Dammit! Everyone I would tell that joke to is probably dead.

It’s been a few hours, maybe I should check to see if the dead are done tromping through my garden.

Shit. Zombies multiply like rabbits in heat. The fuckers are everywhere. They are just standing in my begonias, mumbling and moaning. Oh, that one’s ear just fell off. I wonder how that would do in a compost pile. I wish they would go across the street and decompose in the Wilson’s yard. Artie flips his shit every time a dog poops on his property. This will make him go insane - if he’s not dead already.

Oh shit. What was that? Something is pounding on my back door. Should I check?

“Help. Let me in!”

Aw, crap. Who is that? If I stay quiet maybe whoever it is won’t know I’m in here.

“I know you’re in there. I saw you look out the window.” Dammit. “Let me in!”

“Wait. Who are you?”

“It’s me, Bob.” Oh, Jesus, Mary, Mother of Joseph - I can’t fucking stand Bob. “Let me in, please!”

“No, go find somewhere else to hide.”

“What!? Let me in. They’re going to kill me.”

“Survival of the fittest, Bob.”

“PLEASE! I’m begging.”

I’m going to regret this. “Ugh. Fine. Just stop pounding on my door, I already have a headache.”

“THANK YOU. Thank you.”

“Okay, listen. If you are going to hide in here we need some ground rules.”

“What? Why?”

“Hey, it’s my house, and you being here is forcing me to put pants on. Okay. First rule - No talking. Actually, that’s it. You are not allowed to speak.”

“Wait..”

“Eh. Nope. What did I just say?”

“But,”

“Shhh.” I just pulled out my teacher, Shhh. “No talking. Now, thanks to you, I have to put on some yoga pants. Don’t touch anything.”

Bob has not stopped speaking about how this catastrophe is really “going to shake up the tax code laws.” Over an hour of “survivors will fall into new tax brackets.” I am dying a slow painful death. Considering I have not uttered one single reply I think he finally ran out of things to say.

He’s picking his teeth.

He just wiped a piece of chud on my oak dining room table.

Bob and me. Me and Bob. Alone. Forever. I’m being punished. That’s it. I said one too many times that I don’t believe in God. And now God is laughing. Good one, God. Again, if you hadn’t unleashed the apocalypse I would tell some of my friends about your sense of humor, but they’re probably dead.

And I’m stuck with Bob.

He is now making the sticky slimy salivating noise when you slowly open and close your mouth. He is not eating or swallowing anything. Just opening and closing his gaping mouth. I can almost see spit bubbles forming. Opening and closing...opening and closing...opening and closing…

“That’s it. I’m done.”

“What?”

You want to destroy the daffodils? Where’s the candelabra? I might as well try to take some of you dead assholes down.

It’s clear there are worse things than death.