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albrew
on sabbatical
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Challenge
Simon & Schuster is one of the world’s leading publishers and we are always looking for fresh new voices. Write a story, chapter, or essay about whatever you like. The 50 best entries will be announced by Prose and read by our editorial staff for consideration.
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albrew in Simon & Schuster

The sky was impossibly distant above her as she lay in the dry grass. Pale blue, like a bowl suspended, not a single cloud. She had created a small nook for herself--crushed the tall grass below her stomping, bare feet and now she was concealed, a small boat sunk in a golden, rustling sea.

She'd come here often after the fire, walking the dusty road from the neighbors', escaping the heavy silence in the guest room she was sharing with her aunt, the closed drapes and kleenex wads and untouched tea mugs. In retrospect, it seemed an odd choice, as it was this very same grass that had allowed the fire to spread so quickly, hungrily engulfing everything in its path, death and a blackened smoldering in its wake.

But the grass had grown back since that day, exactly three months ago.

Unlike so many other things, that disappear in an instant and are gone forever, like smoke dispersed in the wind.

The charred remains of the house still stood, as though perpetually against the backdrop of a setting sun, blackened to silhouette. If she sat up and turned east, she could see the roofline in the distance, leaning precariously, doomed to collapse when the winds picked up in early fall.

It had been a spring day, notable for its very ordinariness. She'd eaten her breakfast of yogurt on the front porch, swinging her feet off the edge, watching their shadows pass over the ground. It was quiet, a mild breeze stirring the yellowing grass, birds warbling in distant trees at the horizon. Her uncle had gone out to start the tractor a half hour or so before, and she could see him now, out in the field, bent over the engine. His red cap stood out like a beacon and he was dwarfed by distance and the rusting hood that hung open above him. Inside, her aunt bustled about, humming distractedly as she passed from room to room, pushing windows closed against the gathering heat.

As she turned to open the screen door, she heard a shout, and wheeled about to see a looming tower of black smoke hovering, then moving toward her over the field. Orange flames licked, rose, grew, reached and she could see nothing of the tractor or her uncle.

"Auntie!" she shrieked, and felt her voice strain against the roar in the air, in her ears.

She froze, paralyzed with panic. No answer from inside. She ran into the house, screen slamming roughly behind her, screamed. Couldn't stop. Heart in her throat, bursting. Her aunt on the stairs, eyes wide with fear. "Get outside, now!"

The porch, the field, the road. Air that burned, hot and singeing her throat. And the roaring that grew. Tears on her hot cheeks and rasping, ragged breaths as she ran as fast and as far as she could, and then farther.

Neighbors' voices, loud and then very quiet. The house, consumed, yellow paint melted, peeling, the brick chimney somehow bright, unscathed in the ruin. Distant sirens howled, too late.

Her uncle, vanished, the tractor a shrunken smoking skeleton. The ground black, the sky gray.

Her aunt, silent in the midst of comforting arms, her mouth slightly open, still carrying a dishtowel in one hand.

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albrew

youth; fleeting

the blast of exhaust

fumes heady, luscious in their toxicity

as we traversed rutted gravel roads

tossed our heads, our drinks back, in wonder

there was no then, only now, and now held such intensity

skin tingling in the sun, lit like copper,

our breath sweet with spirits, and youth

sleep, heavy and hard, under familiar stars that

we knew shone on us, for us, warmth in the cold

of a world we couldn't yet see

were those simpler times? we thought nothing of it,

no more than sand between our toes, the rush of a receding tide

salt-rimmed glasses and tousled hair

thrilling mysteries in the familiar, silhouettes nearly recognizable

exquisite pain in their beauty

steady hum of the engine, melodies in the balmy air

vinyl backseat, tangled arms, legs entwined,

comfort in loose boundaries

cheeks flushed like sleepy children

our eyes incandescent, our teeth white in the setting sun.

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albrew

passed over.

so long ago, but i remember that day

rush of wind through your hair as you turned away

from me, from it all, from the life that we'd led

you'd pissed it away, said you wished you were dead

and i, shocked and empty, could speak not a word

could not process, understand, anything that i heard

huddled together, under stars, velvet sky

arms entwined, late at night, said my soul made you cry

and i, breathless with bliss, could speak not a word

could not process, understand, anything that i heard

met you under the trees, it had been too long

you gazed at me, whispered something felt wrong

crumpled inside as i watched you go

your footprints disappearing in the snow

and i, wretched, could speak not a word

but understood every single thing that i heard

now that i know how it would all end

your callous disinterest, the note that you'd send

to me in my torment, "you're such a great friend"

wonder if i'd ever trust someone again

Challenge
You are renting a room in someone’s house as you transition to living in a new city. The owner tells you that the basement is completely off limits. You start hearing noises coming from the basement at night. After several days, curiosity overcomes you and you sneak downstairs to see what is going on. Explain what you find and what you do next Write in any genre that you wish. Tag @sandflea68.
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albrew

nightlife.

San Francisco is a moldy, dank town.  No one tells you this, you just inevitably find it out when you go apartment-hunting.  I'd had enough of mildew, of damp, of shitty windows that don't close.  The woman who met me at the door was posh--tall, lithe, expensive hair.  In a low voice she ran through the details--lots of light, storage in the attic, but do not, repeat, do not descend to the basement.  I was so grateful for a warm, dry bedroom that I nodded mutely, willing to agree to anything.  She seemed unsurprised at my lack of curiosity, only raising a sculpted eyebrow as I hastily wrote a check.  The rent was shockingly low.  The keys felt good in my hand as I left.  I could not have been happier.

That is, until about 2am, when I awoke, disoriented, my air mattress sighing angrily as I jumped up from the floor.  WHISTLE.  CRACK.  Over, and over.  Maybe an old furnace?  WHISTLE.  CRACK.  Nervous, I turned back to bed.  What the hell could that be?  I tried to apply a rational answer--probably old plumbing, shifting as the temperature dropped overnight.  Yeah.  Plumbing.  I fell into fitful sleep.

Every night, at the same time.  A thin whistling sound, and then a sharp crack.  Sometimes haunting moans.  Finally I mustered up my meager courage and 

tiptoed out into the shared hallway.  Louder here.  It sounded like it was coming from downstairs.  Worried, I hesitated.  The landlady's words reverberated.  But I couldn't take it anymore.  The stairs were steep, dark.  My footsteps were muffled in plush carpeting, and I watched my hand reach for the knob on the door, my heart thundering in my ears.  WHISTLE.  CRACK.

I pushed the door open a few inches with tingling fingers.  Low music, soft lights.  In the middle of the room stood the landlady, thigh-high boots and red lips, flicking a whip expertly in one hand.  WHISTLE.  CRACK.  At a sleek bar behind her, several women lounged, cat-like, watching her with heavily made-up eyes as a young man removed his shirt.  Her eyes met mine as she raised an eyebrow. "What took you so long?", she purred.

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albrew

full up

dread, a river overflowing its banks

pushing its boundaries, relentless

and i am the eroding shore.

Challenge
Prose Challenge of the Week #39: Write a piece of poetry or prose about addiction. 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. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge
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albrew

an addiction story, in verse

after.

when, on halting feet

you took those first steps, alone

and away from me, who held you so close

who carried you in my mind, my dreams, 

fear and rage left no place

for thoughts of you, of light

a new struggle, now

those early days when you,

fragile as an egg

allowed yourself to be cupped

and passed from hand to hand, now gone

me, justifiably worn, purposeful then

but what now

treatment, 1.

your complaints, strangely confident

bumbling therapists, and

no one to confide in here

nothing to fill the time, the void unbearable

treatment lows and delusions of grandeur,

food you didn't like

noisy neighbors and itchy sheets

cheap cigarette cartons littered the floor

new habits now practiced, new finesse

walls covered in tedious proclamations

that served your purposes

i felt degraded by you, 

and so tired

treatment, 2.

the complacency of your denial

suddenly undone, a knot untied

in your hands, turned agile

and your mind, sharpened in new ways

disquiet, a shaking, quivering sadness

that seemed to fill all rooms

its own weight, breath

a darkness filled your holes and lingered

you, alternately vacant and present, charms and talismans 

held in a death grip, sweaty palms and 

apologies at night, whispered over and over, 

a mantra that punctured my soul

and does still

before.

the energy we all own, ours alone

can only bear so much deceit

vague allusions, offhand and yet

so carefully contrived

your lucidity a thin veil

i knew if i looked closely enough

i might see through it to you

staggering under the weight of the mountains

of psychic baggage you could no longer carry

your overwhelming sense of ineptitude,

too often borne out, and my guilt

my desire to avoid it all

until i couldn't

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albrew

upheaval

wet ground that gives way

beneath my sodden feet

awash, the rain heavy,

 like me it does not relent

slammed doors and shouting

i only win when i 

walk away

Challenge
Let's go to the CIRCUS... open portal, so any genre.
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albrew

the big top frame a skeleton

that eats you up as you creep in

yawning, haunted, hallowed space

the days gone by have left no trace

of what transpired long ago

townsfolk don't talk, but they all know

oh yes, the circus came to town

and then death brought the curtain down

that lavish world of make-believe

grants merry-makers no reprieve

from pain and sorrow, sin and vice

best think once, or better, twice

she thought she had it all worked out

her sparkling sequins, metallic pout

through the air, an elegant swoon

luminescent as the moon

below the surface lurked a need

twisted logic inviting greed

desperate, she called him twice

knowing this, he upped the price

he who primped and preened and pranced

cracked his whip, made those girls dance

swagger walk and saddle shoes

hair trigger temper; too-short fuse

she met him at the appointed hour

simmering within, seeking power

gleaming top hat, glittering eyes

he beheld his newfound prize

but oh, she had her own dark scheme

had come to her in a vivid dream

tucked up her sleeve a small, sharp knife

she knew that she would take his life

for every small indignity

a chance to finally be free

and as she lunged

he jumped away

(as one will do when one is prey)

and as he did she fell forward

as her arm was tilted toward

her heart, beating hard within her chest

in went the blade, right through her breast

she writhed, she screamed

his eyes were wide as her blood streamed

the reddist red,

she bled and bled

he stood there frozen, numb with shock

and then that ringmaster took stock

placed the baggie at her side

and with a shudder there she died

the darkness overtook this place

revelers claimed they'd see her face

the show would end and there she'd loom

vivid in the gathered gloom

and that was why they dimmed the lights

no one wanted further frights

the clowns dispersed, the music stopped

the glitter swept and balloons popped

oh yes, the circus came to town

and then death brought the curtain down

Challenge
Prose Challenge of the Week #38: Write a piece of micropoetry about what summer means to you. 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. When sharing to Twitter, please use the hashtag #ProseChallenge
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albrew

porch evenings

lusty insects court under cover of darkness

bathed in heavy heat, laconic

bare feet propped on the railing

wet ice clinks

intimate sweat trickles 

window fans whir, futile

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albrew

farraige.

somewhere, deeply, i recall

the years, centuries past, when

on northern shores howled wind

unrelenting, through chiseled stone

earthen, moss, no warmth

no safety in small numbers, 

turned inward along rough cliffs

spirits of wood, of rock, of sea

whose faces, forms, mingled with dappled light

through trees, shadows, sea foam rushing

what fear, looking to the sky

envisioning it alive, stalking panthers 

rustling through stars in velvet heavens

as distant gods gaze down

and take no notice

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