Payments and Refunds
If you, like so many others, don’t want to read a bunch of legalese, then this post is for you. With the launch of the bookstore comes a few additions to our terms and conditions pertaining to payments and refunds. This post brings you the lowdown without the legal jargon.
Payments
Once your wallet funds exceeds 5000 coins from your content sales, you may request to “cash out.”
So, how do you get them? Well, all you need to do is simply email, payments@theprose.com with the subject line “Cash Request.” In the body of your email, include your username, your PayPal email, and the number of coins from your partner content that you wish to liquidate.
We will then send your requested payment from our business PayPal account no later than the 3rd of each month.
** Remember: 1 coin = 1 cent (1/100 of 1 USD)
Refunds
Prose do not offer refunds on coins that you purchase from the coinstore, only on the coins that you spend directly on Partner content.
We do not offer refunds on short stories or chapter purchases.
You are eligible for a refund on purchased books as long as
A) You purchased the book within thirty (30) days
And
B) You have read less than ten percent (10%) of the book content.
For any refund requests, all you need to do is email us at refunds@theprose.com with the subject line “Refund Request” and we will get back to you within 7 working days. Depending on the nature of the email, you may receive a response sooner. Make sure to include as much detail within the email body, along with your username, to ensure swift handling of your request.
N.B If you paid for Partner Content but received no such Content in return, for whatever reasons, then please directly message the Partner, who is responsible to respond and resolve the issue.
Proser Service Announcement
We interrupt the normal Two for Tuesday schedule to bring you this important Proser Service Announcement.
It has been a long time coming, and we still have a way to go, but, for all of you iLovers out there, the iOS app has been updated today. We're sure many of you will have noticed already.
So what's new over there?
Prose 4.0: Introducing: The Prose Collections.
This update brings you the hugely anticipated Prose Bookstore. Our shelves are stocked, and for the next few weeks, all books you find on the store are free! Read books on Prose and save them to your Library.
What you'll find:
- Our brand-new Bookstore.
- Your own library to hoard the books you love.
- The like button is back! Hurrah!
- A couple of design changes to make your experience a whole lot better.
- An all new engine under the hood with regular updates to come.
- A handful of bug fixes and performance improvements.
Now, those of you that use the Website will notice those updates are not yet on your screens. Fear not! The Web update is imminent, and Android is coming soon.
Over the next few weeks there are even more updates coming your way. Of course, we're not going to share all of those with you, but we know you will be stoked.
The Prose Coin is coming soon, and those of you that are Partners will be able to start making money on your books. All under one roof. Hell, yes.
The team are aware of a couple of pesky bugs that are being remedied and resolved as we type this post. Stay tuned for more updates, right here.
Two for Tuesday will be back next week.
Until then,
Prose.
Addicted to you
Loving you has become my addiction
Every day I need a shot
You’re a sweet high a sugary affliction
You mess with my body you fuck with my brains
I´m hooked on you
Like hot sticky syrup you run through my veins
It drives me insane when I smell you near
All I want to do is explore your body
Everything else just begins to disappear
Nothing else matters but tasting pieces of you
But you deal just one lick at a time
And this one baby is overdue
-----------------------------------------
© M.Withers/M.Strudwick . All rights reserved.
Both the name The EriduSerpent/EriduSerpent
and any written material is owned solely by the above named.
Permission granted for all written material to be shared but not for profit.
Printing or publishing is prohibited without seeking permission first from said owner.
She breathed the aroma before she saw it coming. An earthy fragrance, nuanced with
something, perhaps a blend of the freshly served cuisine from the table beside her. No matter, she would not allow her senses to be tainted by conflicting aromas. Not this time.
"Magrets de canard," the waiter intoned at her elbow and the plate was laid before
her. And there it sat, exquisite and steaming, with a congregation of potatoes and
peaches, parsley and cloves, a single serving of moderately portioned nirvana. It was all a bit put on, a bit of a pile, but attractive like a respectable orgy of smooth-skinned waifs. She smiled at this. The waiter seemed to take this as a compliment, bowed, and asked her if she required anything else.
Her Bordeaux, like Jim Tourner, had left her. She gripped the glass by the bowl and made a tick-tocking motion to the waiter who skipped off to the cellar for a fresh bottle.What was his name again? Gaspar? Never mind. She licked her lips, her tongue was swimming in a pool of saliva but she had to wait for the Bordeaux.
Her manicured nails drummed upon the table like hydrogen bombs. Click click. She surveyed the others tearing bits of animal flesh with flared nostrils, slurping sauce with obscenely pursed lips. She gauged she would euphemistically call the man at the table to her right a gentleman, the one with the porous, pockmarked face. She turned to her left, a woman with an unfortunately inconsistent skin tone. She returned to her plate, a proper perfection devoid of embarrassing inconsistencies.
The waiter was then standing behind her. He was sweating, collecting his breath, panting like a salty dog. He mopped his sweaty brow with a soiled sleeve.
"Alright, darling?" she asked politely though she hardly cared.
He nodded and proceeded to decork the vintage in hamfisted fashion.
She awaited patiently. She was furious, waiting all this time for a goddamn glass of wine. Her lips compressed and she tasted lipstick. Just great, galette de pomme de terre with a side of rouge a levres. Perfect. She snatched up her napkin with frustration and removed the lipstick completely. She tossed the cloth to the table were it fell beside her empty glass stained with rouge.
Her eyes pierced the waiter as he struggled to remove the cork. His damn mustache, pathetic rumpled collar, partly tucked shirt, dingy dress shoes. She couldn't stand him. What was he doing working here? Who could have hired him? She looked about for a more senior waiter. Seeing none, she sat back and battered the table with her nails. Click click.
Ah, at last, the cork was free. He spilled a bit as he poured it but it didn't matter. She allowed him to finish the pour, set the bottle at the center of the table, and leave without a word. She took her time in smoothly applying napkin to left hip. She swirled the crimson contents of the glass and savoured the aroma. The scent from the duck was still there as well like an expectant lover with doe eyes. She lifted the fork. It gleamed in artificial light, it cast angelic slices across the reddened and sweaty faces of her fellow diners who were all oblivious to it.
She managed a bit of everything into a respectable morsel and regarded it, balanced as it was by thrice pronged steel. It hovered, immaculate. Her hand shook not at all, as deft and still as judgment. A slight bit of duck fat slid through the slits to the plate below. It didn't matter, she would collect it later, perhaps with a bit of peach for that perfect juxtaposition of fauna and fruitflesh. She smiled, closed the gap between anticipation and satisfaction, tasted the menagerie, allowed her tongue to be ravished, the bite to flow into her mouth, the fork retreated, the flavours siphoned.
For a brief moment she stopped, felt her throat tighten, her eyes water. Through bleary tears she gazed at the remainder of the plate just begging to be taken advantage of. She tried to breathe, she rose, hovered. She saw the waiter running towards her with stained waistcoat and that absurd mustache. Oh god, she felt herself sweating. She raised a hand to her mouth and began to choke.
Towel
A towel is about the most massively useful thing when it comes to murder
Think about it!
Need a murder weapon? A towel can be great to strangle the life out of someone that's become a bit too bothersome.
Need a way to sop up all the blood that got everywhere? A good towel can clean all of it up real quick!
Need to get rid of the cumbersome dead body you found yourself in possession of? Use the towel to carry it away before it starts attracting flys.
Need to get rid of the towel? Well stick it in the wash with some bleach and you can reuse the towel, or just burn it!
Towels they are terribly useful!
Will
There is a will,
there is a means,
within my being,
to continue dreaming.
Despite the exhaustion,
the strange allure
to become inure,
numb and unsure.
The tempting displeasure
of monotony in leisure.
The laziness of belated days,
forlorn promises forgotten
just after New Year's day.
To kick the bucket
'for it's been written,
to give my soul the ease
and give up the tension.
But ...
My heart's a metronome,
a melody I cannot capture.
My mind's a maelstrom,
for my senses are enraptured.
I'll chase these fleeing sentences
till my day of days,
and even then,
my hand'll tremble and reach,
to clutch it's ethereal nature
in my final beat.
The sky's blooming life,
the stars craft cunning poetry.
It convolutes and tames all the same,
soothes and frustrates,
caresses and invigorates
an undying thirst
to solve mortality's verse.
The irony of this existence
is too unique to be ignored.
If this world bores you,
you are the bore.
There is a will,
there is a means,
within my being,
to continue dreaming.
A path of uncertainty,
a waltz of collecting impurity,
corrupted certainty and fear,
for the end of one
is just as the others':
drawing near.
Yet the journey's the tale,
the ending's an empty trail,
just a sad wish
for conclusiveness.
Instead, corral the attention
upon current fixations.
Forget the end;
beckon what else there is!
There is a will,
there is a means,
within my being,
to continue dreaming.
Amongst empty souls,
their shallow hearts--
mere puddles and pools.
Consider them maimed,
dead all the same.
I seek out those
who see as fools.
Their hearts are teeming
with propagating inklings,
soul gasping aches and heart cravings.
Their minds are carnivals,
mirror rooms and grand halls,
forests and blood moons,
explosions and ka-booms!
of ambition beating
inspiration in monsoons.
Their body's swathed in scars,
layers and layers of carved art,
from past and present wounds,
gauze wrappings and fresh flesh,
eager to draw from the world again.
For in them is a will,
there is a means,
within us all,
to continue dreaming.
Our Fallen Hero Gaston
He was the only one we knew who could save that poor girl, trapped and enslaved by some monster in that godforsaken tower. Gaston was the best hunter in our village, albeit a cocky and arrogant one, but such arrogance is warranted when you're blessed with his skills. We needed him and he knew it. He'd parade himself around the town's tavern calling everyone to arms, cursing the monster, and ensuring us that he'd take it down. Like the story of Beowulf and Grendel, a story which we knew he never read, we had faith in his abilities and prayed for him as he set off for the castle. Nobody save for Gaston had the courage or the gall to approach it since Belle was taken by that thing.
We sat in our homes and the tavern, cowering behind our walls as our hero trekked his way up the cliffs to the stronghold, knowing full well that whatever lay inside could prove to be his end, though he didn't care. Perhaps he was going on this journey to further reinforce his self image, perhaps he truly cared about that poor girl trapped by the beast in spite of his constant teasing of her, perhaps it was because he knew he was the only one who had the slightest chance of success. So when we saw his fall from the cliffs to his demise, when we heard his screams come to sudden stop when he reached the bottom, we knew our chances were grim.
Our fallen hero Gaston failed to save the beauty, and was slain by the beast.
Jekyll, Hyde! They’re After You...
Drinking coffee and pacing in the hope
that I will not fall asleep. Yesterday
I suffered from a nightmare and woke up
and though I was relieved to be in bed,
my hands were soiled, my clothes were ripped, my shoes
were caked in what looked like dry blood and mud.
The basement to the tenement building
where I keep to myself was open and
I took the opportunity to burn
my belongings. I don’t know why I fear.
I cannot remember anything, but
what if I did commit unspeakable
acts while I slept? Who would condemn me? In
the dream, I hunted the wretched refuse.
I helped them with their yearning to be free
and besides, it was all just a nightmare…
