"And it was like a confirmation of their new dreams and excellent intentions that at the end of their journey their daughter sprang to her feet first and stretched her young body." So goes the Muir translation of Kafka's most famous story, the last line dangling hope on the page. Because despite monstrous changes, this girl might be fine, and without horror, she could never believe it. Franz's Metamorphosis dreams for better things in a city that punishes you for staying in bed an hour later than you're meant to. Her brother has paid for a breather by being shunned - first by his boss, then his family. As a beetle or cockroach or whatever you want to read into the word 'vermin', he scurries from an angry dad and lobbed apples, hurt and forgotten, watching the people he loves forced to work without him. Eventually, it's okay. This man dies and his sister transforms. Everyone does. Light finally enters a smothered household. The beauty of change against our will is that you might be sad about it, but those feelings won't last for long either.

Have you noticed that SMPLE has been shifting too? We're not about to crawl on the ceiling or flip work the bird; hell, sometimes we just dream of server costs. No, we've been reaching out for your work - your writing, art, images. Whatever you think the world is ready for. And our first paid poetry competition has closed. The theme? Metamorphosis, of course. There seemed no better topic to match our new challenges for the SMPLE community.

We're running many more like it - both now and in the months and years ahead. Stay tuned. Stay hungry. From flash fiction to essays and photography prompts, there'll be something to try or share, winning admiration from tens of thousands of our monthly readers as well as (whisper) the chance to work with us in the future if we really, really like your stuff.

Anyway, onto the announcement.  We were pretty impressed with the quality of submissions, but this one clinched it.

Elise Gehosky - 'When I realized'

We adored the child's eye in this piece. Moreover, the images, sounds and seamless time skips envelop us like dust in the air. From steaming smiles to walking sunlight, Elise's language is playful and innovative. We felt pure suspension - of wanting and accepting, of two ages and a fissure, of a clock's hands poised while we figure out that our own are powerless. Nice one. Elise wins $100 and a push on our site and socials! See what other paid projects are still live here.

Oh, and read the poem in full (with a few honourable mentions below):

Marbles scattered 

In the garden,

Waiting for us to 

Find them.

They fall from the sky,

Onto the earth,

Like glass.

My fingertips touch

The glass and draw

A heart from the steam

A smile 

from the steam.

My feet leave footprints along

Hard wood, creaking floors.

The hiss of the water

spikett, and soft slippers sliding.

Bright flowered drapes and 

Polly pockets are sprawled across

The floor,

with the plastic orange airplane.

The fire is on. Glowing as 

we lay tucked in.

The clock tells us its 3 am

And I eat the three glass cubes

from my cup

A mirror now hangs

on the door

Empty mirror.

Dust 

dirt

faded silk hands from 

The wall 

and my

finger prints 

my smiley face 

gone

my heart  

gone 

Light sparkling down on the kitchen floor

when the light turns to dust;

The sunlight walks into a

Dark hallway.

We were once in this spotlight

Cooking homemade spaghetti sauce 

Now

the light shines on nothing 

But the table.

Peaches, 

Rotten.

 

It happens just for 

things to switch 

for things to hover above me.

Just before these things to 

Fall to the ground. 

Making me see doubles 

One, a younger me

Flowers in my hair,

Honey light on my face 

And shining over the kitchen,

Painting smiles on the wall.

And me now

Standing in a room of 

Stale air

Boxes on the floor

Cracked paint.

It's not that the lightbulb burns

It's that it doesn't burn for

Anyone 

but me 

How comforting it is to

Live in this moment of 

The now

The right before

The moment before

I realized,

that we grow older 

And we are along for the ride

Trying to use our hands 

To stop it but

We see reflections

like a circling

Glass door,

The garden

it's sparkling marbles

but the clock

needs wound 

and all the marbles have been 

found

TJ Edwards - 'Slightly Crooked'

Some excellent verbs and wobbly composition give this poem an edge that sharpens our perspective on ourselves.

Lara Taylor - 'Things I saw on the drive home' 

Linen clouds, wild eyes and a nailed heart call someone back home, even as they wish everything would slow right down. 

The Runners-ups win $10 each. Want to participate? Check out our current live projects!