I don't write for the challenges; the challenges were written for me. Each prompt is inspiration, a valve into creativity. Each response is meaningful, a connection between reader and writer. Each time I write, I feel spellbound by the magic of the art coming alive at my fingertips. Each comment is a compliment, positive and encouraging. Each heart is motivation, reassurance, and filled with care. Overall, Prose is an amazing workspace for any writer.

"My God, My God...

Why have you forsaken me?

Please hear my desperate plea;

My time I have devoted,

My life I spent for thee.

Oh why then, Father

Hast thou forgotten me?

"My Lord, My Brother

My Redeemer dear: canst thou

Remember me somehow?"

"Oh child of mine,

Precious spirit divine

Where art thou faith?

Thy prayers are heard.

Now hear ye my Son

And study His word."

"We have not forsaken thee,

Not in thine hour of need.

Each trial thou art given,

Is a grand blessing indeed.

Each tribulation an opportunity

To spread thy wings and soar.

Each struggle thou hast known

A greater challenge bore.

Now see how thou hast grown!"

"We do not hand thee

More than thou can take.

In these times of trouble,

Thou we won't forsake.

"Our voice is the whisper,

The strength in the wind;

With you -past the end."

Brother oh brother,

Gone before I've come

Brother oh brother,

To meet you...

Why I and not you?

Were you the one

Whispering in the

Angels' tongue?

T'was I all along

Mine sister dear,

I'm only glad

That you could hear.

Why you and not I?

I wish I could say,

Oh sister of mine

Faith -we'll know one day.

Oh brother oh brother,

So it is true?

The words I have heard

And even you?

Indeed dear sister,

Take fear never

Be brave and strong -

I am with you forever.

Thank you

Oh brother divine

Farewell sister

Oh sister of mine.

I remember, but do I really? I see glimpses of the past flash through my mind, but are they even real? And which came first? I'm not sure; I don't know. I hear my mother's voice and see my siblings faces on a Sunday after church. I feel their hands teaching me to sit upright and I feel myself falling every time they let go. I remember smirking when my siblings all had to do homework and I didn't, I remember washing away carefully traced letters in the sink, and I remember my babysitter giving me her necklace. I recall going out in the cow pasture with my other babysitters -my head got stuck in the car window. I recall playing in the driveway in the summer -I got the dumpy toys, but I didn't care. I was always on the far side of the driveway with the broken pink car, but it didn't matter to me. I was content just to sit there; happy to be invited at all. I sat on my dad's lap as we ate dinner and sat on his foot as he dragged me to bed. I laughed as we ran through the sprinklers in the afternoons. I smiled at the meowing box on the drier -and at the kittens our new "male" cat had a few months later. I remember our cats walking along the ledge on the side of our house. Fortunately, I don't remember the day we came home to find all three cats shot. Dead. I don't remember saying goodbye to my first house not long after. I'll hope always remember that red brick house, those three big cats, and those hot summer days. But most of all, I hope I never forget how good it is to be young.

They can't understand;

They don't know what it's like:

Heavy. Thick. Suffocating.

The helplessness and darkness.

They don't understand it:

The smothering dark,

The painful fear,

The conscious paralysis.

They can only imagine:

The helpless plead,

The voice of angels,

The answered prayer.

Not they, but I to see

The light in darkness,

Peace. Hope. Glory.

The beauty of darkness.

The journey of the night

The angels answering

A dark and desperate prayer.

They don't understand what it's like.

I can only imagine if they did.

Writing is beautiful: it's an art of creation; a bridge between reality and the imagined. Wordsmithing is power and emotion; what one writes can has different potential and meaning for different people; there are no limits to the messages and stories you can convey in a mere few words.

Drifting. Unexpected. Tragic. Sinking.

Heart hurts. Death. Sorrow. Broken inside.

Laughter. Bittersweet life. Joy fallen.

Hope Rising. Smiles. Cries.

Not gone, still hurting, but healing.

Always a scar, slowly fading, but never gone.

Always a mark that never washes away.

Growing stronger. Rising higher. Flying.

Soaring. Remembering, but not falling.

Able to stand apart, memories united.

Even death cannot stop the heart.

The hope. The memories.

Death is not the end.

Life is not the beginning.

But together, they take you,

Lead you along

An unforgettable

JOURNEY.