The clock struck midnight

And down went the axe

The pumpkin, glass slipper

All that was left

The clock struck midnight

And it all disappeared

Ball gown, carriage

Nothing is left here

The stars are old

And the day grows cold

And the cards all fold

And the twisted darkness grows

All that is left

Is a piece of glass

Worthless and obsessed

She runs far away...

--

The clock struck midnight

And the lone werewolf cries

Left and so lonely

He wonders if it's time that he should die

Glass shards cut into

Every piece of youth

He underestimated the

Things that love can do

Forever destined

Denied his family

The only hope

Has run away barefoot

If he wishes

To catch his Alice

Then Romeo's gotta

Run far,

            far,

                 far,

                     far away...

The Clock struck Midnight, and Midnight struck back. The two danced across the dark library in lockstep, evenly matched, knocking books from their shelves and ink from their wells with little regard for the significant mess the Librarian would have to clean up in the morning. Assassins so rarely thought of such things. They were more often concerned with elaborate murders and making sure their face masks were properly in place and their very unique and identifiable scars and tattoos were properly covered.

"You're a terrible assassin," The Clock goaded, leaping from an armchair onto Midnight's back.

"At least my assassin name isn't 'The Clock,'" Midnight retorted, flinging the other assassin from his back before carefully adjusting his cape.

The Clock stood, looking dizzy. "Yes, because 'Midnight' is so original."

The Librarian watched from the check-out desk, rolling her eyes. "More assassinating, less chatting, please."

New recruits were the worst.

The clock struck midnight

As he sprung out of bed

The sounds of explosions 

Playing in his head

He's up on his feet

Making enemies of chairs

Lost in his past

Tripping down the stairs

He's deep in a war zone

She's fast asleep

Undisturbed by his fighting

She's counting her sheep

Until a firm grip of the throat

Awakens her with fright

It had been so long

Since he had this kind of night

She's writhing and gasping

As she slaps him awake

He snaps back to reality

And cries about his mistake

He's at a loss for words

He doesn't want to be this way

She embraces him and cries

As night gives way to day

He takes steps to deal

With the demons that possess

Hoping that his efforts

Will bring much needed rest

He lays down and tries to relax

As the day comes to an end

And just when he thinks he is healed

The clock strikes midnight again

The clock strikes midnight,

The glasses are raised.

Lovers consume each other,

Amidst the confetti haze.

Here he comes now,

Eyes alight with hunger.

As if he's found a treasure chest,

His greedy mouth can plunder.

Time's not on his side,

And neither am I.

This minute isn't ours,

I don't think pigs can fly.

I'd rather have a love,

That surpasses 60 seconds.

I'd rather begin my new year,

Without a make-out session.

Farewell two-thousand fifteen,

Usher in the big one-six.

I'll kiss Jack Daniel himself,

And pray the minute hand ticks.

The clock struck midnight.

I stare. He's on the podium, except not to give a speech.

The guillotine's beautiful blade hangs above his head as he speaks a soliloquy I once taught him.

Every word is perfect.

He never managed to do that in lessons.

I give a proud little chuckle as he bows his head.

The crowd is silent as I clap.

Once.

He looks at me incredulously.

This is all my doing, he reminds me with his cold blue gaze, a proud little smirk on the corner of his thin pale lips.

Twice.

It's a punishment for my deeds, not yours. You will be punished, too, though... I raise an eyebrow as the executioner prepares for the much-awaited task. He kisses the air and shouts, "Salut!"

Once I join you in Hell.

Thrice.

I clap a final time, and the blade whooshes down to sever that clever, cruel head of a child from the spoilt and tainted body. I can still feel his skin under my fingers, hear him as he calls out to me. 

I smile pleasantly at the woman next to me. "He is finally dead, hm?"

She nods vigorously, fire in her eyes. "He killed my son!"

Your son was a rapist and a murderer.

The man behind me interjects, "He had disrupted all my missions!"

He does your detective job better than you do it, kind sir.

"He stole a cane from my shop!"

It was used to catch a serial killer.

"He brainwashed my children, then let them die!"

He didn't brainwash them, oh no. You did.

I give a chuckle as the murmurs grow louder.

I am the true sinner, but I will never repent.

The clock struck midnight, a tolling of countless bells that vibrated the still air. A wizened, old man nodded in satisfaction and vanished without a trace.

Bong

Footsteps pattered and icicles shattered musically as they marched into the parlor, batons waving and drums pounding. 

Bong

Marie started awake from her sleepy position on the velvet couch, hugging the nutcracker close to her chest. She turned to face the crackling hearth and gasped.

Bong

An army of countless mice stood at attention, spears and knives at the ready under the glimmering Christmas tree. They parted to reveal a seven headed creature, swathed in dark robes and a heavy gold crown on its head.

Bong

"I am the Mouse King!" it roared. "I have come to seek a fair maiden of this world to take to my kingdom!" 

Bong

Marie shook in fear as she met the glittering eyes of the Mouse King. It lashed its whip-like tail and pointed with a furred paw.

Bong

"Capture her!" The army rushed at the little girl, who struggled to her feet, but was entangled by her blanket. She fell with a thump on the floor.

Bong

Moonlight glinted coldly from the curtains as the mice surrounded Marie, pointing their sharp weapons at her. She tried to grab her precious nutcracker, but it was gone. The Mouse King raised a paw.

Bong

Suddenly, explosion sounded. Dozens of mice toppled over, stabbed by swords wielded by brightly painted toy soldiers.The Mouse King snarled as a nutcracker vaulted over the mice in front of Marie.

Bong

A fierce duel began between the king and nutcracker, the clang of metal on metal silencing the battlefield as both sides watched their leaders fight. The nutcracker fought valiantly, but was soon overpowered by the Mouse King. It lifted its sword for the killing blow.

Bong

"NO!" Marie cried. She brandished her slipper and threw it with all her might. The mice squealed in terror as the king fell onto the floor, dead. They all fled, chased by the soldiers.

Bong

The Christmas tree was growing and the floor was rising. Marie stood in shock as she shrank to the height of a mouse. The nutcracker beckoned her to an opening in the clock, just her size.

Bong

The little girl glanced behind her at her huge, familiar home. Slowly, uncertainly, she followed her beloved nutcracker to the mysterious land beyond.

And so, the clock struck midnight. Who knows what will happen afterward?

The clock struck

midnight.

Wide awake.

Chemicals

rabble rousing.

Crank.

Crank.

Crank.

Wind me up.

An old alarm clock

ticking.

I need pitch.

Grey matter itching.

My pores are

a billion tiny eyes,

soaking in each

stitch of

wayward light.

Street lamps.

The tiny red ember

of the space heater.

White moon.

I am a rooster

at the ready.

Limbs curled like

spaghetti.

Mouth dropped

open.

Throat full of bells.

I could wake hell.

(Please, just read it through before you judge me or what I'm saying here.)

the clock struck midnight and all through the site

every creature was stirring somewhere out of sight

their written-works were submitted with care

in hopes there'd be recognition found there

all of them, each devouring what they'd said

as visions of winning dance in their head

each of them worthy, and I with a gasp

realize it's not to be judged like the past

it's the bookmarks and shares that matter

shoving me into a bad fit of sad laughter

away with this, we'd done at last

I thought when our judges were cast

so that even if one's fan-base were low

they'd still have a chance, on their work alone

looking back on it all now, it seems quite clear

picking the winner from the top is much easier

they'd read them all, but a few is quick

so it makes me wonder, should I give a shit?

don't get it twisted and make me ashamed

there is more to my logic than someone else's fame:

consider each writer's motive to bookmark them

someone else's poem, reducing their own chance to win

or if they didn't enter themselves, as they don't all

do they read each one and pick, or pick the best first-draw?

what are the bookmark-shares measuring in Prose.'s eye?

the merit and quality of writing, or a popularity pie?

who's work had the most exposure throughout review

by posting it early or having a robust fan-base to boot?

the best piece of the challenge by measurable vote?

I thought we stopped this when we left tumblr to Prose.

I want a Prose. Win to be about the writing we found

which spoke to us- creative, original, and grammatically sound

the one which stood out like a bird flying out of a book

which had each in the Panel drawn to the end by the hook

consensus based on reading them all front to back

agreeing on the one, that in most, was written to last

which, for the writers is an ultimately freeing concept

so they can bookmark, share, and freely comment

knowing their input has no basis in the final judgement

reading as much or as little as they want to in a moment

so the Prose. challenge becomes about what everyone is writing

and not who visibly has the best chance of winning

and yes, I'm assuming the worst of humanity

but it's only because of my experience with these things

I trust a Panel of Judges to read them all

but not when it's the public clicking a vote

I wrote this poem to express my anxiety

a poet, painter, and teacher on New Years Eve

hoping for a better, and more creative 2016.

-M.E.

201512310729

The clock struck midnight, Catherine’s face twitched her arms resting, heavy and cumbersome, on her lap. She lifted her numb body off the leather chair. Slowly, painstakingly, she made her way to the window. Snow fell down in large clumps, each flake pausing before her as it passed the window.

The street was wet and shimmery, tall lights reflecting off of it in golden orbs. A car sped past and Catherine imagined herself inside. She flew down the slippery asphalt. Catherine pressed down on the gas pedal until she thought it might fall through the floor. Snow pelted the windshield, appearing then disappearing.

Catherine closed her eyes, her hands clutching the steering wheel. The feeling of freedom made her stomach churn. Faster and faster she went. She smiled and laughed, screamed with delight. The rapid thuds of the windshield wipers mixed with the crescendo of the song that was playing arose in her a euphoria she had not felt in a long time.

Soon enough, the car found its destination. A meadow spread out before her, yellow and gold, tall grass waving in the summer air. Catherine was no longer cold and the weather no longer gloomy. She left the car and stumbled into the grass. Catherine ran, her heart racing and legs bouncing. The tall plants tickling her feet. Eventually, she found a tree. A man was leaning against the trunk, reading.

“Hello Catherine,” he said as she approached. It was her neighbor, Frank McCloud. “I have something for you.”

He reached into his pocket and fumbled around. His hand surfaced, wrapped around something small and square. Catherine looked down at him, perplexed. He closed his book and set it aside. Shifting his weight, Frank moved onto his left knee and propped his right before him.

“My dear Catherine,” he said. “We have known each other for some time now, and although our parents may not approve of it, I know that I love you and that I will always love you.”

Tears formed in Catherine’s eyes.

“So, without further ado,” he continued. “Will you, beautiful, intelligent, too-good-for-me Cat, marry me, your awkward goofy neighbor?”

Catherine smiled her sheepish smile and nodded her head. Frank’s eyes lit up as he received her reply. In his excitement he dropped the ring. The couple laughed and fell to their knees, their hands frantically rummaging through the grass.

“Mrs. McCloud,” a far off voice said. “Mrs. McCloud, what are you doing on the floor?”

A hand clutched Catherine’s arm. She looked back to see a woman wearing scrubs. She was on her hand and knees below the window. 

“Let’s get you to bed. You need rest for your daughter’s visit tomorrow.”

Catherine found her way to her feet and looked at the woman quizzically. “My daughter?” she asked.

“Yes, your daughter, Annabelle.”

“I didn’t know I had a daughter,” she mumbled.

The woman sighed and guided her to the bed.

Drifting to sleep, Catherine saw the clock strike 12:01.

The clock struck Midnight

A young mother in full Fight,

A Whimper

Then the Scream.

Echos throughout a long Hall

Time moving barely or none at all,

Waiting

Hoping.

Outside a darkened Town

Inside sweat Rolling Down,

Time is slow

Still nothing to Show.

With one last Movement

Loves true Testament,

Great Joy!

Time moves too fast.