Step into the ocean...

I confess, I am cheating on the Writing Forums. That is, I have another forum on the side called Scribophile. Don't worry, I'm not leaving this community, just broadening my network. They have themed contests and sometimes cash prizes are rewarded to 1st and 2nd place, sometimes 3rd. This has motivated me to enter one: the Two Ways Contest (I could win $50 for 1st place or $25 for 2nd.)

The guidelines to the contest are to write 2 pieces, a poem and some prose, with similar themes. The two pieces basically complement each other. Named 'Words Are Prizes', here is my entry:


Words are prizes

That fall from her mouth

Souvenirs and trinkets

That fall from a pout

From the slot machine lips

As I wait to be paid

Perk my ears when I think

To me it was said


Her steps were light as feathers as she floated across the room, a slender figure, lithe as a doe walking upon the snow. She looked exquisite, her figure exhibited in a white dress with several flowing layers of thin fabric. A white bow would always hold her silken hair in a beautiful form, and white gloves covered her delicate hands, fluttery, hovering like little birds. Even the men who acted most uncouthly felt a strong respect for her beauty and stepped aside as she made her way through the crowd. Nobody dared utter a single word that might offend her, and many were scared to utter even a single word in her presence for fear they‘d upset her. Those that couldn’t face her always left the gathering, ashamed of themselves for being inadequate to occupy the spaces of an angel.

The strong-hearted souls who would share the air with this young and fair treasure would speak to her with every bit of chivalry their spirited hearts could deliver. Her responses were a soft breeze of words spoken but could cause a gale in a man’s head, which for most men was too much to weather--their hearts would melt into their shoes and they would return home bewitched, unable to sleep without recalling her soft features, unable to quell the lullaby of her voice from ringing through their heads.

Even these men would realize their terrible inadequacies and grow forlorn, painfully aware of their offensive habits and the maladies of their characters. A man could be broken by a woman such as this, though, no fault could be given to the angel, a being incapable of procuring blame. A man who falls into this self-judging condition is like the lost sailor, over-board on rough seas. Friends will call from afar, but the brine is too deep today, the wind too strong. You can swim for a while, or find a rock to cling to or a sandbar to lay stranded on, but little can be done. Once consumed, most are doomed.

But why is it that angel’s must tempt men?