# Anonymous September Challenge: “The First Time I Died”



## Chesters Daughter (Sep 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 Gumby is: *The First Time I Died

**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 September at 7pm EST.*


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## Chesters Daughter (Sep 10, 2019)

*The Well of Judgements*

At the Well of Judgements by Man
I lay bare, undisguised, and simple.
My torn yellow dress billowed over the hills
like sunshine 
and wafted down to bluebonnets.
My heart calmed at the sight.

The dogs in the pit saw meat.
I stayed thin, but they also craved bone.
Knowing, 
as flowers in a child's garden
they will be picked, 
--I knew:
not to be arranged within the oblation 
of flowers for gods
but as one bad seed for the devil.

Color, 
amid snarls and teeth
that separated pink body from rare meat,
splattered dirt walls and stained my shadow 
to the ground. Slick bones chewed,
the gavel resounded. 

Death was but a moment, mercy, by the intention of a seed.


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## Chesters Daughter (Sep 11, 2019)

*
No Tears*


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## Chesters Daughter (Sep 11, 2019)

*
Unfinished Business*


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## Chesters Daughter (Sep 14, 2019)

*
The First Poetic Death*


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## Chesters Daughter (Sep 15, 2019)

*
Bubbles*


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## Chesters Daughter (Sep 15, 2019)

*Breathlessness Can’t Bully Me*

On occasion,
I can't recall
how to breathe.
I'm not talking wheezing,
I actually can't inhale.

The souvenir shop
at the New Corpse Carnival
offers up freebies
(Tell all your friends!)
to every patron.
Proof of passage,
if you will.

A tourist's syllabic snapshot:

Essences ensconced 
in faltering flesh
are suffused in silver shimmer
as memories are swirled 
'round paper cones
like cotton candy,
(nice and portable
so you can take them with you)
and the only game of chance
is which exit you'll use,
but it's rigged.

All rides are fitted
for the disabled.
Most patrons are compromised,
and those who aren't
are bewildered
and busy badgering barkers,
seeking an escape
from an unintended destination.
Those fit to amble
are reluctant to slog along on lengthy lines
or leave for the light.

Sets of ears hear
their preference piped in.
Selective symphonic strains
to ease the strain
of transition.
There's a cobweb covered stand
hawking cure-alls,
but only rarely is it dusted off
and opened for business.
Only a Chosen Few
are able to discern it.
Never a more apt scenario
to prove seeing is Believing.

Back to not breathing.
My shriveled balloons
forget to inflate
(just one of many keepsakes
from my first carnival excursion)
and set themselves down
for a hazardous nap.

My faded reentry hand stamp
pulses with the hyperactive effort
of a pump delivering violet
when it's crimson 
suffocating cells crave.

I used to panic.
Liters of air, everywhere,
yet I can't suck it in.

Now, my accustomed cerebrum
picks up my brain stem's slack
(my sympathetic nervous system
doesn't live up to its name)
and focuses every ounce of concentration
to rouse my pleural traitors.
Bombarded by electrical impulses,
turncoats stir.

Even lazy lungs can't deny
a jolt of juice,
(I'm sure Frankie Stein would concur)
and they finally offer up 
their best puff fish impression.

I know the carnival still awaits,
everyone passes through eventually,
although unlike myself,
most are not repeat customers.
Been there, done that, 
got a helluva lot more 
than a stinkin' T-shirt,
and I'll be damned if I allow  
my freaking freebies
to force me back 
before I'm ready.

But the third time's the charm,
isn't it?

On second thought,
the gossip gleaned
on tour number two
revealed rest is yours
once you use the right exit,
and as weary as I am

perhaps I should let
sleeping lungs lie
and make returning
my first priority.


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## Chesters Daughter (Sep 15, 2019)

This challenge is now closed.


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