From Poetry to Prose (It's Time to Adapt)

Okay good...phew.

My submission:

Link to original poem: http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/124896-mouth-shut-or-else/

Same title —

Mouth Shut Or Else

There is a metal chair centered in the room. This room, as all other rooms do, contains four walls, a ceiling, a floor. Above me there is a lamp, flickering in an irritating pattern. My eyes direct me toward the north wall. A tsunami of thoughts pound my head. “How will I escape?” No aspirin: this is frustrating. There is no door and there are no windows. The torment begins…

I am bound to this metal chair like a prisoner bound by the iron rails. Hyperventilation is horrific and its arrhythmia. Goosebumps sting my skin as a draft comes and strikes me. Where did the breeze come from? This cannot be good.

Without warning: my jean zipper becomes undone, my shirt’s buttons become undone, and my shoelaces become undone. My skin—sharply sliced from the rope’s restraints; I am released by this unknown force. I am standing upright. Another draft comes my way as I see my naked body shivering in this barley lit room. No jeans, underwear, socks, shoes, shirt—I started to tremble profusely. A force violently pushes me back on the chair. The same rope bounds my torso and arms, but this time, a little bit rougher. I see a thumb and an index finer come straight at me. (Where the fuck did they come from?) I attempt to escape their grip, but alas, they force my mouth open shove my socks in it. My nose is congested.

Next, my fairly new (but have been worn) basketball sneakers are stripped of their laces. The left shoelace bounds my right ankle to the chair. The right shoelace bounds my left ankle to the chair. This time a hand appears with tape and takes my left sneaker and secures it over my socked-mouth. The right sneaker is taped over my nose as I am forced to smell the stench of my basketball sneaker. I don’t know how much oxygen is in a my shoe.

The light bulb flashes and makes a crackling noise. I experience tremors. Please make it stop. Please. The room is now completely dark. I think my heart just stopped.

Never mind. I am still breathing…barley. Now I regret playing basketball, that smell is nauseating and makes me vomit…almost.

The next thing I feel are tons of thousands of fingers caressing every inch of my body. I cannot prevent my penis from erecting. One hand clinches my boner and jerks it. I am shaking in this chair trying to get out—trying to ignore the revolting pleasure I am undergoing. My nipples are being horrendously pinched. Through my socks and left sneaker I belt out a thundering scream, more like a minor hum. The light then turns on and now I see everything, all the abuse. A sweaty palm brushes itself against my abs and then slaps my stomach hard: ten times. Then a rod is forcefully shoved up my hole. My eyes bulge out of my eye sockets. My hole is getting fucked. I am in PANIC MODE, MAJOR PANIC MODE: I WANT TO DIE AND END THIS TORMENT! I cannot contain it, I have no choice. My penis ejaculates after a pair of lips kisses my head and I bear disgusting pleasure. I shed enough tears to fill an ocean. My body, a once beige canvas, now corrupt with red marks and tremors and cum. The hands have ruined me through their unremitting tickling kissing caressing fucking sucking slapping jerking raping.

Why did this happen to me? Then my brain tells me: “You saw your step-father rape your mother last night. Your mother doesn’t know you know, but your step-father knows you know.” Yes, that’s it. This morning my step-father said I should keep my mouth shut or else. I guess he didn’t trust my silence because I think this is what he meant by: “Or Else.” The next thought that comes to mind is, how the hell do I get out of this room?

Good comp. Evan.
I think I may join this one.

Thanks for your entry mate!

Don't forget, there's still plenty of time

Evan, did you start reading the entries yet or no?

Your entry? Of course I did.

I've never written prose before...
I guess it's time to learn, huh.
Well, there's a lot of time for me to learn.
^_^

Slave over every sentence. Every word.

I'm in.. prose is not my strong point but I have faith in you destroying my attempt at it to make me better acquainted with the style. I'll be back shortly.

Count on it Kourt, see you soon.

Hope you enjoyed it on a poetic level.

Let's keep it going for Atakti's terrible memory. ;- )

Hey, thanks... Been wondering, does it have to be an existing poem? I might write a poem first that had enough 'meat' in its concept to lead to prose (have some ideas kicking around). What say you, comp master?

What say I? Yay to you, Atakti.

Write one up, drop a link with your entry.