Prose Challenge of the Week #52
Good morning, Prosers,
It’s week fifty-two of the Prose Challenge of the Week! Last week saw you all writing synopses for our new Prose Original series, Collabowrite. We had shed-loads of superb entries to read, so thank you everyone.
Before we find out which one of you takes the $100 prize and the runner-up prize of 1000 coins, let’s take a look at this week’s prompt:
Prose Challenge of the Week #52: Pick a classic poem and re-write it, modernize it, and share your poetic interpretation of the piece. The winner will be chosen based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. The winner will receive $100 and will be placed first on our Spotlight page and the runner-up will receive 1000 coins. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Get writing now
Back to the winner of week fifty-one. We have read all of your entries and thoroughly enjoyed every single one. There can only be one winner and one runner up, however, and after much deliberation the runner up, and the recipient of 1000 coins is, @LaurusTet with their piece “Walls of New Caledonia.” Congratulations! Now for the champion of the challenge, our winner this week is, @Sandflea68 with their piece “Sinister Disconnection.” Congratulations to you, we will be in touch shortly to arrange transfer of your winnings! It is also @Sandflea68’s job to write the first chapter of our Prose Collabowrite Original Book. If you want to get involved and write a subsequent chapter, comment below!
That’s all for this week, here’s to a week filled with all things Prose!
Until next time, Prosers,
Prose.
Sterling Claymoore, a veteran corporal from WWII comes home to his mansion in the near of Wetherby. The memories of his last mission, where all of his commrades die still haunts him. Almost everyone blames him, as the only survivor. Lots of people tried to kill him, even after the War, most of them were the loved ones of his now dead commrades. Sterling fears, that more people will want to murder him. Because of that he only has a few employees, but even they have to make an oath not to speak about him or his whereabouts to anyone else.
The angry mourners finally leave him alone, after so many years. He thinks he can finally forget the past and move on, but his memories of that day would not go. Years pass, and suddenly the memories fade away, but something worse comes in its place...
He starts hearing a voice in his head. One of his commrades, Johnson speaks to him. At first he only chats with Sterling about his favorite TV show or about sports, but in a matter of months Johnson becomes aggressive. He asks Sterling to kill his employees. At first Sterling ignores the voice, but That just makes it angrier...
4103 miles
I met you in the city I always took for granted; Concrete slabs and February blues, you fell in love with the city streets, and I did too.
I realized I needed you while you left for the only place that ever felt like home to me; evergreens and mountain landscapes shattering the horizon in a peaceful protest.
I loved you in the moments we stole; tucked away in my basement, drunkenly singing old songs and looking for bits of home in each other.
You're leaving, 4103 miles to separate us once more. Missing you will come in waves, but loving you has made me a better swimmer. If the tide swallows us, promise you won't let go.
Murder
You scold me like a statue.
Erect silence, you know it kills me.
You’ve accomplished nothing to be so
cold. This reminds me
of a bold Washington pose somewhere near White Marsh,
off the tangle of new roads,
the bust of God moulding in the forest
the same as a stone bench .They’re everywhere
in the old parts of town. You said an outhouse
had been torn down on the estate, how sad you said,
but you grew up here so you can be sad.
Fort Washington, where we get off the turnpike,
no fort, just a Holiday Inn where you used to drink
before you should have been drinking,
a one-eyed pregnant girl in a story I’m glad you told me.
It is true, I killed a raccoon once,
back in the deep, wet hills of southern Indiana,
no dead presidents, no turnpikes, just a couple of
young Gods drunk on mercy.
murdered souls
each night as i lay alone in the dark
He crept up to me.
there was nowhere for me to run
nowhere for me to hide
i was all alone.
He held a gleaming knife in his hand,
but He did not strike.
He used His words instead.
night after night He told me i was worthless.
He told me the world would be better without me and I should just leave. no one wanted me.
i asked Him why he didn’t just kill me Himself.
He said it wasn’t His job,
which led me to believe-
it was mine.
can you murder yourself? i wonder.
first degree murder means a carefully planned killing.
and i’ve laid here so many nights and wished to be gone. thought of ways to escape.
on the bright afternoon when i stood with the handful of pills in my fist
i learned that yes,
you can murder yourself.
i did.
i feel that He murdered my soul long before i murdered my body,
but that doesn’t matter now.
He moved on to the souls of my friends and family, the people who cared about me.
He now visits them when they are alone at night
and tells them they should’ve done more for me.
they could’ve stopped this.
how could i have been so selfish to leave them alone with Him?
i hear their sobs muffled in a damp pillow.
i told myself i was doing them a favor by leaving.
i used that to justify my actions.
i simply wanted to escape Him.
selfishly i abandoned them.
what started out as a simple homicide has turned into a slow massacre.
i murdered myself. but with that He was not satisfied.
now He murders the souls of the people who love me.
He murders their happiness, their dreams, their security, their comfort.
He takes it all away, until they are left asking the same questions i was.
i wonder how long this will go on, this circle of murdered souls leading one to the other.
it could have ended with me. but i did not know.
i did not know that it was possible to overcome Him.
if one person had reached out to me, told me that they knew and understood, told me that i could defeat Him, i might still be here.
but no one ever did.
my last saving grace is being able to tell you my story.
i hope it opens your eyes.
He spares no one. He often haunts people we least expect.
it seems that so often the ones who cry the most tears at night have none left for the morning.
they don’t want to bother people with their pain.
i know, because i was the same way.
but now you know. so you have no excuse.
be there for those who hurt. if you are hurt, go to someone who cares.
i promise it will not be in vain.
you’re saving a multitude of murdered souls.