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SweetBee
Looking to find my soul in the strangest places and to bleed my heart into my pages.
19 Posts • 38 Followers • 34 Following
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Challenge
Who's Got The BEST First Liner? #3
Can you make us thirsty for an entire novel by writing your BEST first line? Sell us on your big idea in fifty (50) words or less, but it must be done in ONE sentence. Draw us in by overwhelming our minds with excitement or say just enough to lure us after the next four hundred pages? Any Genre allowed. Must be Prose. The object is to grab us at the beginning and to make us never want to let go. NO AI WRITING ALLOWED. I pick the winner. Please tag me, @ChrisSadhill in the comments, and I'll read and respond to your entry! Happy writing!
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SweetBee
31 reads

Playroom

Today is Ms. Wong's last day alive.

- - - - - - - -

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Challenge
Rising Prosers Soiree # 1: Roller Skates
This challenge is for Prosers with (50 Followers or Less Only) who need more traction and want more exposure. Use the topic, Roller Skates, above to craft an original piece showcasing you as a writer and highlighting your unique style among the Prose community. All writing forms and lengths are welcome. Use this digital Mixer to meet, greet, and get to know each other while uplifting your favorite writers. Please tag me @ChrisSadhill in the comments and I will read, comment, and repost every piece. I can’t wait to read your work and will personally be picking the winner. Happy Writing!
Cover image for post My White Swan, by SweetBee
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SweetBee in Introductions
77 reads

My White Swan

March 16, 1958

Her chin-length curls were carefully arranged and gave off a hint of sexy, like Marilyn Monroe. Red lipstick and tight-fitting capris completed her look. I would daydream about the next time I'd see her. Those images kept my mind busy on monotonous days. Thoughts enamored with pictures of her gliding across the rink, more beautiful than a white swan. Her laugh contagious even with the distance of the rink and my rental hut. I spent hours in my hut renting skates but more importantly, admiring her. I looked forward to when she returned them and I could catch another whiff of her L’air du Temps Perfume and all its spicy notes. Spot forty-six belonged to those skates and those skates will only ever belong to her.

“Ok Dear, I’m finished reading to you, ” Charles said setting down his beatup leather journal by the nightstand.

“ I have to go now, Ill be back tomorrow as normal.”

Kissing her soft wrinkled forehead he whispers “I love you.”

“How was she today?” Grace questioned as Charles walked towards the Visitor's booth.

“Not good, it's been weeks since she could remember who I am.” Tears started to swell in his eyes.

“I even read an entry from my journal to see if that would help, but nothing.”

Depressingly, Charles continued through the double doors and out of the nursing home knowing this place would ultimately take his wife.

Now home, he heads straight to the bedroom closet and digs through clothes, containers, and bags until he finds it. He pulls out the oversized shoe box, lifts the lid, and inhales the spicy notes of L’air du Temps.

Painfully sliding down the wall, he grasps the box to his chest squeezing it as tight as a boa constrictor. Tears pouring down his swollen cheeks he stares at the beloved roller skates that will only ever belong to Nancy and spot forty-six.

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Challenge
If these walls could talk # 2: Morgue
To celebrate the spookiest month of the year describe a Morgue's perspective in such a way that we know all its history and all it has seen. Perhaps link it to your life, or maybe someone famous, or just make it up. Make us feel what it feels and tell us the stories it would tell if its walls could talk. The winner is decided by likes. All styles are welcome. Remember to tag me @ChrisSadhill in the comments and I will read and comment on every piece. Happy writing.
Cover image for post Molly, by SweetBee
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SweetBee
34 reads

Molly

The dead never stop coming so why would he? Just as reliable as tax season, my double doors widen just enough to reveal Bert, the county coroner in chorus with the rotary clock flipping to 7:45 AM. He snaps the light switch and replaces his black trench coat with a white one.

The refrigerator temperature gauge he checks first, a perfect 36 degrees, then navigates the room with precision verifying the four medical cots are still neatly lined in the corner. He inspects the troughs on all sides of the stainless steel embaling table and makes sure the bucket for drainage is securly attached. His perky eyebrows indicate he’s satisfied. Next, is the autopsy table. He stands tall cataloging each instrument on the cold metal tray. First, the scalpel, then scissors, followed by a mallet, and lastly his hand grazes over the star of the show, the bone saw. All accounted for. He swallows a warm sip of his French-pressed brew, confirming his morning is perfect, then Inhales a long satisfied breath.

Basking in another successful start, Bert mutters “Re-check temps, open emails, call in lunch order.”

Bang! The double doors fly open. Bert stumbles backwards nearly falling over the instrument tray. Detective Spooner leads the charge.

“Holy Shit Spooner”. Bert cries out.

“Bertieee, I need your goddamn attention on this body now!” spouting off orders without consideration.

A sandy-haired paramedic, Tim, follows him into the room pushing a gurney, then parks it near the coat rack like usual. Bert nods at Tim expecting little in return.

“Hey, Tim.”

Tim, usually less social than most offers up an awkward raise of his wrist and a half smile.

“Hi, Bert.”

Rushed for time and patience the detective shooes Tim out.

“Get the van moved and meet me at the front doors!”

Tim stares at the floor then slips out the double doors doing what he’s told.

Today shouldn't have been any different. But today there was an urgency. You were the urgency.

“This one’s fucking important, she's the Mayor's daughter, Bert. They need to know what happened to her and they need it fast.” he barks. He turns to push through the door shouting “You know the fuckin drill, call me with the results.”

“Yeah, I will.”

Agitated and fuming, Bert grunts and stomps his way to the prep station. He grabs a plastic apron, surgical mask, and gloves, then takes a deep breath being careful to take extra time to calm down. Not even Spooner can de-rail Bert from his professionalism. He’s never lost his cool.

Methodically he pushes you to the perfect spot in the middle of the room with the best light making you the center of attention, and he lifts the stained white cloth from your face and chest, then presses the dial on the radio next to the table. The ambiance of Beethoven's moonlight sonata reverberates the mood off my walls as he begins.

He examines your bruised left temple, stopping every 30 seconds to jot down notes and repeating them to himself. Fingers tactfully move down to your chin, lingering for a bit to verify your broken jaw. His hands move with grace onto the purple ring around your neck. Respectfully he moves your chestnut hair behind your collarbone for better inspection. More notes. I can hardly contain myself. I need to know what happened to your beautiful soul.

The blood, dirt, and skin under your fingernails show you didn't go without a fight.

Finally, his gloves, mask, and apron come off indicating a verdict. With depressed shoulders he walks towards the rotary phone on the wall, dialing each number slower than the next.

“I'm finished with my investigation. Spooner” His voice defeated.

“Her cause of death was—

Static over the intercom interrupts Bert's final words.

“Paging Dr. Monroe to I.C.U. Dr. Monroe to ICU.”

Leaning his forehead on the wall, Bert gently rests the phone on the receiver then drags himself to his desk, pulls the chair out, sinks into the leather, and weeps.

These are the days I wish I were the walls of ANY other room.

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Challenge
100 Words of Fiction: September
Use exactly 50 words to write a prose work of any kind. No graphic 18+ material, please. I will try to comment on all entries, and good writing to everyone!
Cover image for post Composting for Dummies, by SweetBee
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SweetBee in Flash Fiction
47 reads

Composting for Dummies

My nose twitches from the earthy mist while I shiver in the Autumn breeze. Chattering from a blush of robins echos off fir trees. And to think I nearly retracted my original plan to miss such a breath-taking moment. I giggle as his vile blood melts into the forest floor.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x

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Challenge
50 Word Mini Saga # 1: Open Genre/Topic
How good can you stun an audience with only fifty (50) words? Let's see. For this challenge, I’m looking for Prose only, any Genre, any Topic. Popularity will be considered, but I ultimately pick the winner and will read and comment on every entry! Please tag me @ChrisSadhill. Happy Writing!
Cover image for post The Take-Out, by SweetBee
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SweetBee in Prose
47 reads

The Take-Out

He tiptoes tactfully over take-out containers until squatting beside me. His wedding band caresses swollen cheeks while whispering “I told them no peanuts.” Paralyzed on the icy floor I wheeze, throat constricting. He positions my epi-pen just out of reach and footsteps fade with his last smug words. “Good Luck”

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Challenge
August Drabble Challenge: MURDER!
Tell me a story using good, solid prose in exactly 100 words. This month, tie it in to MURDER. Not necessarily the act itself, but that'll be fine, too; use your imagination. I want a super short story somehow related to doin' murder. No need to tag me, I'll read all the entries in September and select a winner.
Cover image for post The Juicy Bits, by SweetBee
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SweetBee
68 reads

The Juicy Bits

Gooey cheese and grease spill down Mr. Sterling’s chin, but he’s a professional. He dabs it away with his embroidered handkerchief before chomping another Ludicrous bite. “Best damn cheesesteak!” he burps to himself. Wiping his greasy fingers, he tosses the napkin, then check-marks a Five-star review. I squeal through the chef's window.

Today the best food critic eats in my diner, but it was just two months ago Adam and I separated. He always said I had potential, yet assured I’d never make it without him. Now with my winning recipe, I must defrost more of him for tomorrow's special.

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Challenge
Mama
Tell me about your mother. From award winning actors to serial killers, mother's get credit for a lot of things. Do you attribute your life/personality to your mother? Good, bad, ugly? I'd love to hear about it, any form.
Cover image for post A Daughters Absolution, by SweetBee
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SweetBee
38 reads

A Daughters Absolution

You never said goodbye,

because you never knew you left.

I’ve always said it’s okay.

It's okay I haven't seen you

for the last twenty-seven birthdays.

It's okay I never got to share

my first womanhood moment with you.

It's okay I had to figure out

how to pick my first bra.

It's okay you weren’t

at my high school

or college graduation.

It's okay that you never

met my boyfriend

turned fiance,

now husband.

It’s okay that I never got to show you

my first house

that we spent our life savings

to purchase.

And if you don't see

our next adventure.

It's okay

because I forgive you.

I know you couldn't help it

and you’ll continue to love me.

because

I remember you as you were

before your diagnosis—

and It’s okay.

Those memories

will never disappear

from my life

as you have

and that's how I know

It will be okay.

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Challenge
bottle rocket
let it all out, sadness, anger, happiness, fear. right here. because therapy is overrated
Cover image for post A Daughter’s Absolution, by SweetBee
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SweetBee
37 reads

A Daughter’s Absolution

You never said goodbye,

because you never knew you left.

I’ve always said it’s okay.

It's okay I haven't seen you

for the last twenty-seven birthdays.

It's okay I never got to share

my first womanhood moment with you.

It's okay I had to figure out

how to pick my first bra.

It's okay you weren’t

at my high school

or college graduation.

It's okay that you never

met my boyfriend

turned fiance,

now husband.

It’s okay that I never got to show you

my first house

that we spent our life savings

to purchase.

And if you don't see

our next adventure.

It's okay

because I forgive you.

I know you couldn't help it

and you’ll continue to love me.

because

I remember you as you were

before your diagnosis—

and It’s okay.

Those memories

will never disappear

from my life

as you have

and that's how I know

It will be okay.

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5
Challenge
Who's Got the BEST First Liner? # 2
Can you make us thirsty for an entire novel by writing your BEST first line? Write the BEST first line to the next story that you never knew you wanted to tell. Sell us on your big idea in forty (40) words or less, no more. Draw us in by saying everything to overwhelm our minds with excitement or say just enough to lure us in and have us lusting for the next four-hundred pages. Any Genre is allowed. The object is to grab us at the beginning and to make us never want to let go. Must be done in ONE sentence. Happy writing! I pick the winners and will read every entry!
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SweetBee
36 reads

Lost

My trembling, dismembered hands, and throbbing parched eyes consume my thoughts with hollowing screams as I bob motionless up and down in the crashing surf after she shattered MY home, MY Peace, MY Life.

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Challenge
New Writer Challenge For 50 Followers or Less
This challenge is for new writers to Prose. Any form and any length. This is for prosers with 50 followers or less. I will repost my twisted little heart off. I look forward to reading all your words and welcoming you to our badass little community. This Challenge comes from the inspiration of @lilenigma. Cheers my friend.
Cover image for post Cinderella Ice Queen, by SweetBee
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SweetBee
54 reads

Cinderella Ice Queen

“Living in the shadows long enough eventually turns a woman cold, so my favorite time of the year is winter. It's unpredictable, brutal, and can be one cold-hearted bitch; All things I love about myself.”

The crackling fireplace contrasts my frozen heart, while the snow glues itself to the corner of the window like an artery slowly clogging up. I help myself to another glass of four roses bourbon, the only flowers I feel I deserve. I swirl it around the glass—eye level, fingers tense. My nostrils flare out to sip in the aroma, then I inhale a mouthful of hate while I pound one back. I relax into my brother-in-law's green velvet chair, legs crossed revealing the right amount of sex while I let Kentucky warm my throat and numb the nerves. I flirt the edges of my empty snifter along my leg. The black stockings perfectly balance my cherry red evening gown while the slit kisses my curves. My breasts look like the main course, not the appetizer they used to be. I adjust the borrowed pearls across my neck like a garnish and tuck my platinum blonde falsities behind my left ear. I only wear the glamor for special occasions, and tonight will undoubtedly be one. The platter is prepared. Now I wait for the guest of honor.

A car door indicates he’s on time—An expected occurrence for a lawyer. I inhale the beautiful stench from his drunken nights of cigars and booze and exhale the lifetime of a jealous sister's hate. It's time I finally got what I deserved—The man who loved me first.

The door opens forcefully, and my lustful eyes turn unsettled when my sister, Ruth appears in lieu of him. She grips a note with angst and slams the door with rage. I thought I had prepared for everything. I guess I was wrong.

I am stunned, but holding my composure I squeeze out,

“You’re supposed to be in Memphis. What happened?”

Her scowl burns a hole through my heart and the tone in her voice stabs it.

“Apparently, I’m right where I need to be!”

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