# Anonymous December Challenge: “Sorry Not Sorry”



## Chesters Daughter (Dec 1, 2019)

*IMPORTANT NOTICE: We've a new update to the rules. Henceforth, kindly refrain from using the "like" function, or offering critique on any of the entries, UNTIL OUR WINNER IS ANNOUNCED. We are implementing this policy in an effort to protect anonymity as well as to spare our entrants the agony of being unable to respond to any critique they may receive for what could conceivably seem like eons. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.

*As previously announced by Gumby, we've updated the *challenge rules*. Henceforth, all submissions will be anonymous.

*Please remember that in submitting an entry you are obligated to cast at least one vote in the poll. Failure to do so will result in your entry being disqualified.

*The prompt for this month's challenge as chosen by Andrew Clunn is: *Sorry Not Sorry

**Your entry must be submitted anonymously and therefore should be PMed to me*, *Chester's Daughter**, **so that I may post it for you. Please be sure to indicate in your PM on which board you prefer your work posted, PUBLIC or SECURE. I am responsible for linking all entries posted on the secure board to public board.

***VERY IMPORTANT*** Kindly make sure your entry is properly formatted and error free before you PM it to me as you will be unable to edit your work once I have posted it. If your work requires a disclaimer, please inform me in your submission PM.

PLEASE ALSO NOTE THAT ANY ENTRY POSTED DIRECTLY TO EITHER BOARD WILL RESULT IN THAT PARTICULAR WORK BEING DISQUALIFIED, BUT YOU WILL BE PERMITTED TO SELECT ANOTHER WORK TO ENTER ANONYMOUSLY THROUGH THE REQUIRED CHANNELS. 


Do not post comments in this thread. Any discussion related to the challenge can take place in the Bards' Bistro.



This challenge will close on the 15th of December at 7pm EST.

**A joyous holiday season to all, and to all a good write!*


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## Chesters Daughter (Dec 3, 2019)

*
Gratitude*


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## Chesters Daughter (Dec 5, 2019)

*Coddling the Warden (Mature Content)*

Deeming me unfit,  
with a flush you offered
my tiny gold shackle
to the sewer rats
years ago,
but the digit still peels
shedding flesh like tears.
What an ingenious way
to brand your prisoner.

Our barred windows
have the housing inspector's 
greedy paw
begging for grease again.
I wonder if you'll remit
or resort to brick
denying me the sunlight,
sullied by striped shadow,
that assures me 
the world still exists.

Your key violates the padlock
and I jump to attention,
waiting for inspection,
ready to pipe up  
"Prisoner number one
reporting for orders, sir!",
as number two
resumes her shrieking
from the basement.

Just a corner crack whore
incarcerated without a rite;
she's no hope of a gold shackle
but still bound to wear your brand.
Singing the chorus of Disco Inferno,
you stoke the fire
and then simply stare
until the poker assumes the shades
of an African sunset.

"Bath, then dinner!" you bark
before descending the stairs.
I lean upon the wall 
toeing an idle jack, 
making a note to dust it
before it results in attack,
when the screams 
of a million demons
come barreling from below
and a hint of singed skin
seasons the breeze.

Shocked back into action
I bustle to the bathroom
to entreat the tap to exact 
the perfect temperature
then hustle to the kitchen
to babysit the roast.
Bloody rare is a must
or you’ll gift me another piercing
by a needle dressed in rust.

Silence abounds
as prisoner two's pitiful pleas 
are thwarted by adhesive—
gotta love that Crazy Glue—
and I arrange your plates with a smug smile,
almost slaphappy
at the new inmate's induction.
Perhaps she'll replace me
as your prized plaything.

I pull out your chair 
as you run blistered fingers
through your still damp hair.
I place a napkin upon your lap
and then curtsy with care
so as not to bare scars.
With bowed head, I giddily whisper,
"So good of you to throw a party
most wonderful Warden,
it's a joy to have some company."
and I spy a glint of gloat
in the flint of your eyes.

I offer you a bite
with a silver fork
so far beneath your grasp
as a dirty little ditty 
bounces about my brain:

Please spare her the boneyard
beneath the basement floor,
unlike the whores 
who came before,
let this one be a keeper.


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## Chesters Daughter (Dec 8, 2019)

*Memento*

He was autistic before it was even a thing.

Some laughed and called him an idiot -
not unkindly but thoughtless enough to sting.
He was not unintelligent but often curled
inside a world of his own.
A woodland creature that eschewed the light 
and preferred to live alone.


He could be aggressive,
a sudden nastiness that hurt like claws,
a last resort of a mind that is caught
in a trap of cold isolation.
A lifetime at odds with life’s expectation,
unresolved during seventy-six years

until death stepped in like a friend.


All those years, now lost,
frost upon the melting windowpane.
Remembered moments like butterflies

that passed before my youthful eyes.

Guilt and sadness come with disclaimers,
my thoughts the same as theirs,
sorry? not sorry? – ignorance carries no blame.


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## Chesters Daughter (Dec 12, 2019)

*
With the little time we have left*


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## Chesters Daughter (Dec 15, 2019)

*Thief’s Recourse*

The soul of a dandelion seed blown
there upon a thistle blue wall shone,
a breath of whimsy no toll to pay—
so began the theft of a single day.

In the company of the Rueful Floof
that cunning thief stood quiet, aloof
beneath December’s silvered crown—
a muted light, soft edges all around.

Air as an apple, crisp, biting sweet,
swept brittle leaves along the street—
that mundane street, so still, so safe,
but for that Thief, the clever wraith.

Feet fly with the wind, over a ridge,
pell mell for that Brigadoon bridge,
the byway bandage of a bleak mar,
tracks, a reminder, progresses’ scar.

Old maples denuded of scarlet cloaks,
sentinels among stands of sapling oak,
stood tall, skeletal boughs reached out,
a plea in their clatter: Do not doubt…

The Thief, day clutched true and tight,
ran on, Floof at her heels, feet in flight.
A breeze in her wake traced and teased,
touched the branches, something eased—

It might have been a breath, a bit fear,
but it was something, something dear—
but as the shoes of the Thief whisper,
she knew, not a soul would miss her.

Her laugh, so acerbic and delightful,
to most was a sound utterly frightful.
Alone, but for the cadence of shoes—
this was the path few know or chose.

Onward into the cold, frost in bloom…
nature’s tracery before snows resume.
The Thief, lungs ablaze with bitter air,
seeks to flee—reality’s waiting snare.

A thousand stories, odd tales to write—
the old brass heron praying for flight,
a derelict pond, its poor dryad captured…
as the sentinel maples listen enraptured.

Schools--firefly squid in a bannered sky,
plunge as deep as that heron goes high—
These are the things found in that day,
the three penny wonders stolen away.

No apologies, no shame, or remorse…
Those few hours the Thief’s recourse.


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## Chesters Daughter (Dec 15, 2019)

This challenge is now closed.


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