Week 25

© Original photo by max.lindquist

On my bedroom floor laid two big boxes.

The first box, battered and worn out, was made of blue cardboard and beside it, a white box stood proud. Both were as empty as my hallway this quiet Friday evening.

Memory, said the blue box while in bold black letters, the white box said Future.

One by one I tossed in whining, fear and regret in the blue box. It was filled to the brim mainly with what if’s and could have been’s. Later I gently placed opportunity and guts side by side in the second box. With a ribbon of time I tied up friends and family and did the same to words and inspiration.

Soon, only two things were left: you and me.

With a deep, heavy sigh I placed you in the blue, battered box. I placed myself in the other.

I kissed the first box with realization and acceptance then sealed the other with appreciation and humility.

________________________________________

Two Boxes by KASH

Week 24

© Abby Bayani

“Cross your eyes.”

“Close them?”

“No, cross. Trust me.”

Jessie’s words echoed in my mind on my way home from work. Christmas Eve had never been this lonely, especially with my big brother and his family gone. I’m not jealous of them going to Canada to spend the holidays, just plain sad.

My brother and I had been orphans since I was 8, he 14. Mom died with a heart attack and Dad followed her just 7 months later. Ever since then we lived with Mom’s sister, Aunt Tessa. She loved to sew clothes and I would’ve been happy about it if she didn’t force me to wear the jumper she made that screams neon pink for my first day in college. Still, she was as sweet as the cupcakes she baked for the Yuletide Season.

When Jessie got married two years ago, he moved out of Aunt Tessa’s house, leaving me behind. He was jubilant when he moved out of Aunt Tessa’s house for one, he’s getting his own house for his family and second, he doesn’t have to pretend to be happy in receiving another pair of orange pants from our aunt.

It was hard, and hurtful for a kid to accept the death of her parents. I knew Jessie had a hard time too – harder even, since he had to grow up and be my dad and come out of stories as to where Mom and Dad went.

“Cross your eyes,” said 14-year old Jessie on our way to Aunt Tessa’s house, our new home.

“Close them?”

“No, cross. Trust me.”

I did what Jessie told me, and I was amazed with what happened to the Christmas lights hanging on the houses in the neighborhood.

“What are those, Jessie?”

“They’re spirits, Sam. I’m not sure which of those, but Mom and Dad are there somewhere. Just cross your eyes when you see Christmas lights every time you miss Mom and Dad.”

It was cold outside; the chilly breeze blew past my face as the jeepney moved forward. There were two kids sitting across me– I assumed brothers and sisters – and they were competing with each other as to who gets to see Christmas lights more. Just like Jessie and I did.

“Look at those then cross your eyes,” said the little boy to his sister, pointing at the colorful display of Christmas lights.

I smiled and crossed my eyes.

And it felt more like Christmas.

________________________________________

Cross-Eyed Christmas by KASH

Week 23

© Paula Nacif

It was unfair of me to avoid my mother’s calls over the past week. I know she’s just worried about me – her baby who’s now all grown-up, venturing the dangerous streets of the city just to go to college. She was extra worried this time, hearing that my boyfriend for two years dumped me for a certain Michelle.

After a listing the pro’s and the con’s, I called my mom. I instantly regretted doing so.

I apologized for avoiding her, but she demanded to see me. I only knew my mother too well; she won’t stop ‘til she gets what she wants.

“Fine, meet me at Jerry’s tomorrow. It’s at the corner of 5th street, beside Dunkin Donuts,” I said over the phone. I've never been to Jerry’s myself, but my roommate says they serve one of the best burgers in the area so I decided to see my mom there. Maybe some good meal will calm her nerves.

The place was packed when I arrived there at a little past 10 a.m. Guess this place do have awesome burgers, I thought. I sat at the only spot empty, the table by the window. I asked for two orders of their bestseller and waited for my mother.

The bell on the door rang and I turned around disappointed – still no sign of my mother. A short-haired girl wearing a pleated skirt and Oxfords entered and – I can’t be so sure – looked surprised to see me at my table. She headed to the counter; the guy behind it gave her a kiss on the forehead.

Screw you, I thought. I looked outside and pondered on what made Anton leave.

I was certain it wasn’t Valentine’s Day, but for some bizarre cupid the streets were filled with lovers – happy lovers. I took my notebook and wrote Anton, you’re a douche; my cheeks were wet after a few seconds.

Not again, I thought, and rushed to the restroom. Mascara smeared my cheeks and I reminded myself to buy a waterproof one. Or maybe just stop putting make-up altogether, especially now since I have no more reason to put them on.

I washed my face and looked at the Carol in the mirror. Her skin was dry and she had dark eye bags from lack of sleep; her eyes were tired from all the crying-to-sleep drama. “Will you ever be okay again?” I asked myself. Not sure of the answer, I went out.

The food I ordered was on the table and there was something else. Under my notebook was a sketched portrait. It took me a little while to realize that the girl in the drawing was in fact me. At the bottom it said, “Screw the douche. You’re beautiful.” I smiled. “P.S. The burgers here are delicious. Eat yours.” My smile grew broader.

I sat down and helped myself with Jerry’s Ultimate Cheeseburger. And I felt a little better.

The bell rang, signaling the arrival of my mother who invited me to her loving arms. I gave her a hug – or maybe she did – and her perfume made it feel like everything’s going to be alright.

________________________________________

At Jerry's, by the Window: Carol by KASH

Week 22

© sugarlessgirl

There was a girl sitting at the table by the window at Jerry’s when I came down Friday for brunch. Regular customers of my boyfriend’s diner knew that that table has always been my usual spot that they branded it as “Susie’s table.” It’s not official, but they refuse to sit there even if the diner’s packed.

“Sorry if your spot’s taken, babe. I can’t ask her to transfer to another table,” Jerry said after giving me a kiss on the forehead when I sat by the counter.

“Don’t worry about it.”

It was the first time I saw the girl – brunette, brown eyes, lean body. She wore a blue cardigan and a pair of jeans and looked like she wasn’t getting enough sleep. Her burger and fries were left cold and untouched as she looked across the street, deep in thought.

With no regular job, I usually hangout at Jerry’s and draw out inspiration from my usual spot by the window. She was very still so I decided to draw her portrait on my Moleskin, thinking maybe I could add it to my portfolio. I was almost-finished sketching her when she pulled out a notebook from her bag, wrote on it and a tears came streaming on her cheeks. The girl headed out to the restroom.

The diner was still filled with laughter, proving my guess that no one even noticed that the girl was in tears. I know it’s impolite, but I peeked in the girl’s notebook.

Anton, you're a douche.

I smiled, reading the line that resembled my endless scrawls a few years back - college, my ex-boyfriend and I broke up. Another brokenhearted gal, tsk, I thought. Seeing that she’s not yet back from the restroom, I took her pen and wrote a small note on her portrait and left it under her notebook.

I went back to counter after and there was Jerry serving my favorite lasagna.

________________________________________

At Jerry's, By the Window: Susie by KASH

Week 21

© Natalie Hall

A monster slept under my bed.

He was big and had blue fur, and he always took my pink bedroom slippers. Every night he pulls them closer to him, luring me to his lair where, I am certain, he'll eat me if given the chance.

A big, blue-furred monster slept under my bed.

I would hear him scratch my wooden floor boards every time I am one breath away from sleep. The sound would keep me wide awake for hours, and when I finally fall asleep, it would haunt me still in my dreams.

A big, blue-furred monster who scratches my wooden floor boards slept under my bed.

Mommy won't believe the existence of the monster. She believed that I read too much fairytales that I end up with these images and sounds. But how about my missing tulle skirt? I am sure it was the monster who took it!

A big, blue-furred monster who scratches my wooden floor boards and stole my pink tulle skirt slept under my bed.

One night, my dollies and I were having a tea party under my tent when the monster crawled out of my bed and stood by the shadows in the corner of my bedroom. He was crying.

"Tea?"

The monster slowly tiptoed his way to my tent and sat beside Mrs. Smith. He was wearing my skirt.

"What is your name, Sir?" I said while pouring tea on his cup, but the monster didn't answer. He took his cup, drank his tea and stared at me.

"A'righty then. Can I call you BomBom?"

The monster smiled, and reached out his hand. I shook it.

"Nice to meet you, BomBom. Meet Mrs. Smith," I said, pointing towards my rag doll. He shook Mrs. Smith's hand.

A big, blue-furred monster who scratches my wooden floor boards and stole my pink tulle skirt had tea with me before he slept under my bed.

From that night on, we had tea under my tent. We exchanged stories every night and they were the same tales I share with people.

A monster once slept under my bed. Now he lies beside me, singing me to sleep and in the morning when I wake up, he's gone, leaving me another story to tell.

________________________________________

The Monster Under My Bed by KASH

Week 20

Once, there were three sisters who altered my entire existence. They were Hello, Stay, and Goodbye.

Hello, the eldest, was the hardest to talk to. Every time I would try to call her, my stomach would churn and my hands will be all sweaty. She had always been the most beautiful that I had been afraid to call on her. Now I regret the times I refused to call out to her out of my fear of disappointment. One day I had the courage to say her name, and that's when I first saw her smiled. "Finally," I remember her saying. Meeting her was one of the greatest adventures I had - she introduced me to a bunch of things I never knew. Hello was also the reason behind me meeting Stay.

Stay was undoubtedly my favorite of the three. She was sweet, and happy and adventurous. I often thought she was the youngest of the three because of her disposition. As much as I've enjoyed - no, loved - her company, she was fleeting and it hurt me sometimes. At one point I couldn't bear any longer hanging out with her that I left and bumped into their youngest sister.

Goodbye bore a mysterious charisma. Her hair and eyes were as black as night and they gave her a beauty so frightening. She was aloof and taciturn most of the time, but every time she spoke, the world would stop. And weep. She had the saddest stories among the three, but they were stories everyone knew.

They were three very different people but they come as one. Together they roam the earth and continue to touch lives. Sometimes people rejoice for it, sometimes they shed a tear or two. Nonetheless, they touch everyone.

________________________________________

Three Sisters by KASH

Week 19

Their hands touched and an old, forgotten affection yanked his heartstrings. Surprisingly it didn't hurt as much as he'd expected. For one, it didn't feel like rubbing salt in an old wound as everyone described it would feel, nor did it tear his heart open. It felt weird meeting Abby again, he admits, but he couldn't give a name to the sensation he felt on seeing the girl he thought he'd marry after a long time. If it was pain, it was in a dosage he could bear. Six years was long, Adam thought - maybe it was long enough to mend a broken heart and repair shattered hopes.

It was a shock for Abby too, whose awkward smile was like the silence that followed this unexpected reunion. A girl with blond curls and flinty green eyes came running to them, tugging Abby's skirt.

"This is, uhm, my daughter Lily," Abby said, holding the little girl's hand. "Say hello, baby."

"Hello," the little girl said, waving her hand.

"Hello there little Lily. My name's Adam." he said, one knee on the tiled floor of the grocery store.

"Are you Mommy's friend?" asked Lily. Adam tilted his head to Abby's direction and back to Lily.

"Why yes I am. It's been a while since we've last seen each other. You weren't even born yet at that time,"

"I am turning six this Friday, and I'm having a party. Will you come to my party, Mr. Adam?"

Adam stood and looked at Abby - a smile on her face, giving him permission to accept her daughter's invitation.

"I'll be there,"

"Yay! Did you hear that, Mommy? Mr. Adam is going to my party!"

"That's good news, sweetheart. Now say goodbye to Mr. Adam. We have a lot to buy for your party,"

"Bye Mr. Adam!" cried Lily.

He watched the two walk away. Waving his hands, Adam can't help but be amused with the child. There was something about the little girl - she was just like her mother, he thought, and then it hit him.

It's Lily's eyes. She has his eyes.

________________________________________

by KASH

Week 18

© Jaz Marsh

A faint scent of rain hung in the cold, wet air of that one December evening. It was drizzling, and there I was enjoying my cup of chamomile tea, sitting by the window with Champ contently purring by my feet. Stephen was on the floor, strumming his guitar. The notes drifted in the entire room and into the flickering fire of the fireplace.

"That's very nice," I said.

He smiled and continued playing that nameless tune.

"Tell me how much you love me?"

Stephen looked surprised but he stopped playing. "Well first off, I love you more than this guitar," he said, and placed his guitar down and sat beside me.

"And I love you much more than my CD collection of The Beatles."

"Hmmm."

"Mind if I ask you the same thing?" Stephen asked, holding my hand.

"Well," I said, and started thinking. How much did I love him? He kissed the top of my head.

"I love you more than coffee." He kissed me on the forehead.

"And cake." He kissed my nose.

"And cheese." He kissed me behind the ear.

"On second thought, not cheese. Just cake and coffee."

"Ha-ha." He kissed me softly on the lips and gently started unbuttoning his shirt that I'm wearing.

________________________________________

by KASH

Week 17

© hugovk

People got it wrong.

When most of the living believed that ghosts and spirits unite at midnight, or at three o'clock, they were simply too gullible to believe lies told in Halloween specials in television. Freddy, sitting on his tombstone, wasn't sure if the ghosts from other cemeteries meet at six o'clock every Thursday (like them, in Brookside Cemetery), but he was sure they didn't at midnight when everybody rests in peace.

Today, Thursday, is like any other Thursday at Brookside. Ghosts in the cemetery started to gather in front of Brookside Cathedral to catch up on everyone's life. Or "ghost life." This practice started when Joseph Cornwall, the oldest ghost (died at age 102) came at Brookside at year 2003 and convinced the ghost community that they needed to form some sort of cooperative, to unite for the progress of their "un-life." Joseph was a business tycoon.

"Good day, fellow ghosts of Brookside!" boomed tuxedo-wearing Joseph who stood at the entrance of the cathedral. "Would you gather round here please so we can begin."

"Freddy!" called Sam Daniels, a celebrated philatelist in his past life and Freddy's closest ghost friend.

"Hi Sam."

"Looks like Old Joseph's making the best of his 'un-life' huh?"

"Yet again, dear friend."

The two moved closer in front and stared at the glass bowl holding 697 strips of paper, on each a name of a ghost in Brookside is scribbled.

"Wonder who's coming up tonight," said Sam.

"I just want this all done," replied Freddy.

"A pleasant evening to all! So who's gonna be illuminating our moonless night?" said Joseph who buried one hand inside the glass bowl, and picked one strip out.

"Freddy Allen! I call on Freddy Allen to please come up."

Freddy dragged his feet on-stage and stared at the ghost mob. He looked at Sam who gave an encouraging smile. With a gulp, he spoke.

"Hello, I'm Freddy Allen. You can call me Freddy, or Fred or whatever. I died in 1998 at age 26, leaving my wife and our son. Some of you may know that I was a a doctor, and - "

He looked at Sam again; Sam mouthed "go on."

"And that I died of cancer. I'm a doctor who died of an illness. That's life that is: ironic, frustrating. Mostly frustrating."

Every ghost listened intently.

With a deep sigh, he continued. "Someone told me that the ultimate goal of life is death, and she's right. Everyone is bound to die, no exceptions. Some of you may be wondering then, 'why live when everything's bound to end anyway?'"

Every ghost listened intently. Even Joseph.

"It's because no one would live if death didn't exist. No matter how ironic and frustrating one's life is, we live. It's as natural as breathing. Even as natural as loving. We fight to live because to live means to explore, to learn, to be with the people important to us."

"In order to live, we need to die."

Freddy climbed down the steps, gave Sam a smile and left everyone speechless. He went straight to his tomb; "A Loving Father and Husband," it said.

He was dead. He already accepted that a long time ago. But he's more alive than ever.

________________________________________

Freddy by KASH

Week 16

"Papa?"

"Hmm?"

"Did Mama leave us because I was a bad girl?"

"No dear. You were never a bad girl."

"Then why did she leave us?"

"Because Papa had been a bad boy."

________________________________________

Papa by KASH

Week 15

© Theo Gosselin

Jessica

She ran away at 17.

Getting her saved stash on an old gray sock and her mom's worn-out photo under her pillow, she was convinced it was time she left her father and his new family. She sneaked out of her bedroom and tiptoed her way out of their house. "Good riddance," she whispered, gently twisting the doorknob open. Without any plans of shedding even a single tear, she ventured the silent streets of their city - the lamp posts the only witnesses of her escape. Everyone was asleep, but her heart was an owl wide-awake at two o'clock in the morning.

"Hey Mom, we'll go to Vancouver. You like that place, right?" she said, looking at her mom's photo. "Maybe we'll get some real family time there." She pulled her sweater closer as a cold drift blew.

She bought herself a train ticket and helped herself with a sandwich and a can of soda at Platform 12. At around half past two, she rode the train and stumbled her way across a guy reading a book on architecture, she thought, basing on the buildings on the cover. The guy peeked out of his book, smiled at her, and went back reading.

"Nice guy," she thought as she dug to her bag for her earphones. Staring outside the window, she drowned herself to the drums of Muse and wondered of what she'd do upon reaching Vancouver.

In the end, she thought it didn't matter. She was free.

Cyrus

He was 18 then and like most guys of his age his being sought for adventure.

That night of October 17 he decided he'd explore the world without telling anyone. He packed his things and grabbed his architecture book, then silently entered his sister's bedroom and left a letter on her bedside table. Everyone was asleep, or so he thought. Downstairs, he found Sid blocking his way out.

Seeing him, Sid stood and walked between his legs, shedding cat fur on his pants.

"I'll miss you too, buddy. Look after Mom while I'm away?" he said, patting the cat on the head. "And don't touch Mary's aquarium." The cat purred and went back to licking itself.

It was a bit cold when he went outside. Drizzling, actually. He didn't pull out an umbrella though. Instead he faced the sky and let the rain bruise his face and calm washed all over him.

He arrived at the train station around 2:15, bought himself a ticket and rode the train that will take him to Vancouver. While waiting for the train to leave, he pulled out his book and started scanning the tallest and grandest buildings to rise on this planet.

A girl went and sat across him. Peeking from his book, he saw a green-eyed girl with a disheveled - but not messy, he thought - brown locks and heavy luggage.

"Looks like I'm not the only one to sneak out tonight," he thought.

The girl looked to his direction. Meeting her eyes, he smiled. The girl smiled back and started digging inside her bag. He went back reading and wondered on what sorts of adventure he'd find in the city of Vancouver.

It didn't matter, he thought in the end. He was already on one.

________________________________________

The Runaways by KASH

Week 14

© lenaah

My name is Diana and I want to die.

In my bedroom of white, beige and flowers, I am in desperate need of the perfect outfit. I waltz around my vintage floral wallpaper-covered room while deciding whether to wear my favorite floral-printed skirt to match my white top. “Just choose a simple outfit. It’s no occasion, no need to be extravagant,” I keep telling myself, but I’m still feeling a bit uneasy.

I’m seeing Roger. My ex-boyfriend.

Frustrated (and running late), I put on that skirt and wore a peach headband with a little rose on top. My friends say that I look like a garden with that outfit, but I always tell them to zip it; my uncontainable love for flowers won’t be thwarted by nasty remarks. After convincing myself that I looked alright, I stepped outside.

Roger and I met in his parents’ café just a block away from my house. When I arrived, Roger’s with his new girlfriend. Jessica.

Avoiding their eyes, I said “hello” before taking my seat. Roger and Jessica smiled at me in response.

“Thank you for accepting our invitation to be our wedding planner, Diana,” Jessica said. I flinched but re-arranged my features right away.

I would flinch there and then (like when Roger held Jessica’s hand or when they both insisted on using white lilies on the wedding), but I still managed to be professional-looking. My afternoon went to a blur while discussing their wedding.

Their wedding. I flinched again.

When I reached home after finalizing every wedding detail with the two, I locked myself in my room and sat in front of the mirror. In my hands was the portfolio of Roger and Jessica’s big day; in the mirror was a photograph of Roger and me.

It’s then that I’ve decided that this wedding will only happen if I were to be the bride, and the flowers would be roses, not lilies.

I threw the portfolio away and grabbed my journal, jotting down my plans for Operation Getting-Roger-Back.

“Roger, you’ll be mine again,” I scribbled down.

________________________________________

Getting Roger Back (Prologue) by KASH

Week 13

© Art Flow(away)

Snow began to fall that typical afternoon of November and brought smiles to people – kids try to catch snowflakes, couples race to coffee shops for hot cocoa and fathers start to gather firewood for their hearth. Everyone savors the magic of those first days of snow fall except me. I stomped my way to Libra.

“Why the long face, G?” asked Ken.

“It’s snowing Ken, and you know how much I adore the season.”

“Well honey, I have the one thing that can cheer you up. My distributor just delivered new books from that detective series you’re in love with. Check them out at the back shelves.”

“Oh, I love you!”

At the back, I engrossed myself on the extensive book collection of Ken’s bookstore. Bookstores give me a sense of belonging: piles of books hug me and book pages smell like home. Tapping my fingers on the books’ spines, I found the book I wanted and pulled it out.

"Collins. Interesting choice.”

I turned around and saw a man with blue eyes hiding behind his glasses, a book by Hilary Brown in his hand.

"Brown. You dig love stories?"

"Well, who doesn't want stories of head-over-heels love?"

"I love them as much as I love chemistry."

"A woman who despises love stories. Now that would be a first."

"A straight guy who’s in love with fictitious love. Looks like you have gender issues.”

Amused, the guy offered his hand.

"Patrick."

"Grace." I said, shaking his hand.

"So tell me Grace, why the ardent hate on romance?"

"Too predictable and too unrealistic. Besides, I had enough of gallant princes saving dames. Over time I learned to love how I am nobody's leading lady." I said, still browsing the books on the shelves.

"Man-hater?"

"Not really, just a descendant of Narcissus."

“Well, Narcissus, I guess it’s about time you believe in love once more. Give Mr. Right a little encouragement. Sometimes guys are easily discouraged by snobby women.”

Patrick smiled before heading to the cash register. After paying, he went out and faced the snow fall that’s growing stronger by the minute.

“Hey Kenny, know that guy?” I asked upon reaching the cashier.

“Patrick? He’s a regular customer. You often have classes when he visits, that’s why you don’t see him much. Why, what’s with him?”

“He’s a weirdo.”

“But cute.”

“I didn’t notice. Besides, I think he's gay.”

"Honey, I am gay. I am 200% sure the guy's not on my league. If he was we'd be kissing in the snow right now."

"Gross. I still wonder why I decided to be your best friend."

"Simple: I give you the best books. Now that Collins is $14, but I'll give it to you at $10."

"I love you!"

"Stop saying you love me and go find yourself a boyfriend to cuddle this season."

"No. I think I'm in love with you Ken." I said, pouting my lips, ready to kiss Ken.

"Now that's gross. Stop it before I take back your discount. Seriously G, you are in dire need of a boyfriend. I'd give you romance novels for free just to tickle any romantic bone you have. How about Patrick? He'll do you some good. He's obsessed with romance novels as much as you love those suspense thrillers."

"I'll think about it."

I went out and cursed the weather. Rubbing my hands together, my eyes caught someone waving at me from the other side of the street.

"Hey Narcissus! Looks like you need a cup of coffee. Care to join me?"

Patrick was on the coffee shop across Libra, holding two coffee cups, smiling broadly.

Ken was right, Patrick did look good. He was blonde, blue-eyed but didn't look like one of the jocks. He looked smart with those glasses of his. With a little doubt, I crossed the street and spent the rest of the day talking about books over espresso.

________________________________________

Books, Coffee and Detective Novels by KASH

Week 12

In the eerie silence of darkness, I lie awake and listen to my head debate. Was it true? Was she even real? Sometimes the car lights passing through my bedroom window would break my reverie but on most times these debates would haunt me until I fall asleep.

Remembering that day is like watching an old film: everything in sepia, a sad song playing on the background, the lenses slowly focus on the gazebo on the far end of Swan Lake Reservoir and there I was with Jamie, sitting side-by-side, and then everything is in color.

Jamie and I basically grew up together. Our fathers were business partners while our mothers were part of the board in our school. It was the 4^th of May when I brought Jamie to the gazebo. I guess I was hoping that Jamie would agree to be my girlfriend if I ask her on the same place my father proposed to my mom. She was sixteen then, I seventeen.

Using the canoe we rented, I rowed us through the reservoir. I was very happy when Jamie enjoyed herself feeding the swans in the lake. Jamie stepped out of the canoe when we reached the gazebo. It was a beautiful place: the gazebo was all white, vines hugging the columns; the floor was made of specially-designed marble tiles while the ceiling was painted with angels. While I was tying the canoe in the small dock, Jamie started to dance. Her soft fragile arms were in the air, her body swaying in a distant tune. Her skirt twirled with grace, her feet poised and tiptoed. Jamie has always been a great ballet dancer. I can’t help but be fascinated.

I hated myself for being too ordinary – average looks, average mind. She was endlessly fascinating. It was too painful thinking about how undeserving I was of her.

She was twirling when she lost balance. I caught her before she hit the marble floor. Touching her, it was difficult not to kiss her. I was surprised when Jamie grabbed my head and kissed me, kissed me hungrily.

The wind blew softly. The lake sang and the swans danced.

“Thanks.” Jamie said.

“Be careful now.”

We sat there, holding hands. Jamie took over most of the conversation, but it was okay. I was more than happy to listen – and to really listen – for at that moment, she was the only one that mattered.

She suddenly stopped talking.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m leaving Seth.”

I felt my heart broke. Seeing that I won’t reply, Jamie spoke again.

“Remember my ballet instructor Mrs. Harris? She sent my credentials to a ballet school in London and they granted me a scholarship. I’ll be studying there for four years.”

I couldn’t speak.

“Jamie, I –“

“I know you love me, Seth.”

She held my face and took a deep breath.

“And please believe me when I say that I love you too. I swear on every swan here that I am in love with you. That’s why I ask you to wait for me. I promise I’ll be back.”

This time I was the one who kissed her. I couldn’t understand myself. I was sad that she’s leaving but my happiness warmed my heart with the knowledge that Jamie loved me too.

With the gentlest touch I unbuttoned Jamie’s blouse while she undid my shirt. We explored each other’s bodies and held each other in the cold marble floor. I held her soft breasts in my hands and kissed them. Her arms tightened around me when I went inside her and when I reached climax, her moan was the best sound I've ever heard.

We stayed lying there, our naked bodies touching each other, catching our breath. We got dressed and sat side-by-side in silence.

"Take this." Jamie said handing over her locket. "Give it back when I return."

It’s been two years since Jamie left for London.

Jamie’s locket rests on my drawer, together will all the letters she sent me. I got up, took the locket, and I was convinced that Jamie was real. And she loves me.

© BЯ▲DΣMØИY.

________________________________________

Swan Lake by KASH

Week 11

"Where am I?"

"You're here."

"Where?"

"Here, silly."

"Where is here?"

"Here. Will you stop asking the same question? I'm trying to locate your name on the list."

"What list?"

"I'm looking for your name in this list, the list of people who died. Quite a long list, isn't it?"

"I died?!"

"Yes you did. Why so surprised, young man? Everyone dies - it's even more common than living."

"That can't be true! How, when - how did that happen? I was driving.. and then -"

"And then you died. Your car lost control, jumped into the lake and you drowned."

"I think I remember now. It was raining hard and I was trying to get home as fast as I could for my daughter's birthday. I promised her I'd be there."

"Uh-huh. And you broke that promise by dying. Good going dude, ha!"

"Hey! I didn't choose to die -"

"You didn't. No one could. Only He could've chosen if you would've survived or not."

"Yeah, that old guy who claims to be all loving and merciful but ruins everything."

"You're not the first one who claims so. And you won't be the first one to change his mind."

"We'll see about that."

"We'll see. Ah! Here it is. Lance Campbell, 46, business consultant. You have two kids and a wife who thinks you're having an affair - which was once true - but she loved you too much to not even think of having a divorce. You're very lucky you know. It's sad you're like most people who fail to see how blessed they are."

"I love Kathleen. I really do. That's why I left Cindy. I couldn't bear cheating on my wife anymore."

"There's no need for you to explain. The old guy is actually happy with you. Even though you've given in to temptation, you chose to go back to your family. Ah, the beauty of free will and intellect, of second chances. Don't you find it fascinating?"

"Whatever you say."

"Ha! Tell me. Why won't man find time to indulge in the beauty of life? It's been bugging me for all eternity. You've been given enough time - a life to discover and enjoy the beauty of everything."

"Time? Well, it's a privilege if you have time to feast your eyes with the wonders of the earth."

"Is that why you made instant noodles? To try to have time?"

"I don't know. Maybe, I guess. But time so you won't be late for work - not for vacation."

"Work. Ah yes, you people had to work yourselves to death in order to have money that will supposedly save you from death in the end."

"That's how things work on earth. Wait, how about my family? Will they be okay?"

"They'll manage. Your wife will be distraught when they see your corpse. They'll weep over your death, of course, but they'll move on."

"So they'll forget about me?"

"I didn't say that. They love you, and love is more powerful than time, even death."

"You seem to know a lot on the subject."

"Oh I do. Eternity has taught me a lot. Speaking of eternity, we can have all the time to talk - I personally want to hear your stories. The angels would escort you to room 629. I'll be right there after attending some business."

"Wait, so this is heaven? Not that I don't to be in that place, but, according to the rules, my sins are enough to get me a passport to hell."

"First, this place is more or less heaven. You could call it whatever you want to call it. Second, remember that forgiveness is as powerful as love. The old guy loves you, and has forgiven you for all the errors you've committed. You're only human, after all. He understands. Now, let the angels take you to your room and we'll continue our little chat later."

"Wait! I forgot to ask. Who are you?"

"I'm the old guy. I'll see you later, My child."

© Matt West

________________________________________

The Old Guy by KASH

Week 10

The runways of New York couldn't match up with that of the heaven's.

Every Wednesday all the angels gather at the foyer of Jesu, the biggest building in the Eastern region of heaven. The tradition of flaunting one's wings in this event started a week after the confiscation of Lucy's wings (including other heavenly powers) because of a major violation in the Angel's Code of Conduct. From what I've heard, Lucy's now a lost soul endlessly wandering the earth. Poor kid.

Why flaunt wings, you ask? The reason is simple: the beauty of an angel's wings depends on one's job performance. Better performance, better wings, more bragging rights... well, you know how those work.

Angels of high standing would all be proud when another angel fawns over their wings. Everyone except Erika.

Erika carries the most beautiful wings up here. Hers are made from the most lucid and the lightest glass in the kingdom. They are also studded with diamonds that makes her wings glisten when the sun touches them. Compared to hers, my cotton candy wings is rust on the golden gates of heaven. It was the most beautiful pair of wings, yes, but, oddly enough she appears to be unhappy about them. Every time someone would compliment her wings, she would smile impishly and leave. We've been together in heaven for all this time yet it puzzles me on how she could not seem to appreciate such beauty.

That Wednesday, I summed up all the courage I have and talked to Erika. I found her outside Jesu, under a giant tree, lost in thought.

She seemed to break from her trance when I sat beside her though.

"Such beautiful wings you have," said Erika.

"Thanks. But, they're not as beautiful as yours."

"Uh-huh." Erika stared at her wings. To my surprise, she started to cry, her wings reflected the tears streaming on her cheeks.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"It's these wings. Their beauty reminds me of the good souls I had to fetch on earth. Every time I see my reflection on these wings I see the eyes of those people - eyes filled with horror!"

Erika is an angel of death.

Still sobbing, I hugged Erika.

"It's our job dear. We can't do anything about it. All we could do is give peace to the troubled hearts of the souls we fetch."

"But why all those kind-hearted people? Why them?"

Silence.

"I don't know dear. I don't know. But, who are we to question the plans of the boss?" I answered. "One thing's for sure though: the Boss loves His people. Place your trust in Him."

Erika started to calm down. "Thanks," she said.

Before we joined the other angels in the foyer, I whispered on Erika's ears:

"The boss loves us too, you know. I think He wants you to remember how much He loves you with those glass wings of yours."

© Sally Ghally

________________________________________

Glass Wings by KASH

Week 9

Like most girls, I grew up with once upon a time's and happily ever after's.

I hated evil stepmothers, fell in love with glass slippers and found fairies and dwarfs as comrades. I have dreamed of daring sword fights, witches and wizards casting magic spells, and singing teapots. I have discovered a whole new world inside a rabbit hole - a world where I can have tea with the most bizarre creatures to walk the world of dragons and magic. Riding a magic carpet, I flew and tumbled across the vastest seas and found a genie's lamp.

I wished for my prince charming: a prince of courage and love. He'd save me from my tower of grief and with a kiss, he'll wake me from my nightmares. He'd sweep me off my feet and on his white horse, we'll travel to his kingdom.

All these turned out to be fiction, though. Just fiction. Everything was meant for the books and not real life.

But I did find love.

It only turned out that what I needed was another princess.

© SIDwilliams

This may be the real world but I have learned that it doesn't guarantee safety from the evil creatures of fiction. Many have opposed this love: trolls and giants who call our love immoral, evil queens who think they're all righteous and other monsters of the dark side.

I believe that our love is as true as the love that princes and princesses in books shared and fought for. Love has no rules, no exceptions; love knows no gender.

I am more than willing to slay the Jabberwocky if it meant the clock won't strike at midnight.

________________________________________

My Prince is a Princess by KASH

Week 8

© lenaah

As a ship finds home in the harbor, I find refuge in the sea. The cerulean waters, forever harmonious with the sun breaking across the horizon, is the most perfect masterpiece any god could have created. The raging waves crashing, returning to tears as they reach the stony shore fills me with an unexplainable solace. A solace filled with sadness, yes, but peace nonetheless.

The north wind softly caresses my body and cleanses my soul as it takes me on that distant dream of myself and my father exploring the seven seas - a silent, distant memory I remember with piercing clarity. The seagulls squawking, trifling with the ships save me before a broken promise engulfs me completely; the out-of-tuned band reminding me of my existence... and my father's inexistence.

It's been two years since the sea took the S. Christina, and my father.

You may be wondering why, despite the crime it has committed, I have in me such ardent admiration for the sea. Too tell you the truth, I'm not sure myself. Perhaps it's because I love my father too much. How could I hate the one thing my father loved? Jealous, I may be, but furious I am most definitely not.

I still come here often, bringing my father's - no, our model ship. I sit here by the shore, staring past the horizon, smelling the salty sea water. The north wind blows and I welcome it wholeheartedly, knowing that somehow, it's my father wiping away the tears that escape my eyes.

________________________________________

Nautical Dreams by KASH

Week 7

My beauty? Timeless.

I am the reason for the blonde and blue eyes phenomenon, why everyone would kill to have a vuluptous body like mine. I am perfection. I am the epitome of beauty and grace. A phenomenal woman.

In my world I can have all the clothes and shoes I want to wear, all the cars I can drive. For five decades I have been the plastic paramour of every male doll in this industry: Ken Carson, Blaine - you name them! How can they possibly resist my long lashes and pink lips?

I live in the perfect world.

And I am sick of all this perfection.

I am tired of being ageless. I want to grow wrinkles and have my grandchildren on my lap, have my man hold my hand while we watch the sunset from our porch.

I am tired of this smile plastered on my face. It prohibits me from crying my heartaches out, to be in despair of all the dreadful things happening to me - the things people are unaware of.

I am tired of all the glamor and adoration. A simple and peaceful country life is all I dream of. At times I want to hurt myself with my high-heeled shoes, leave a scar on my cheeks just so everyone will stop adoring me.

I am tired of being perfect. Of being Barbie Millicent Roberts.

© Blythemaniaco

________________________________________

Being Barbie by KASH

Week 6

I. Day

© Weheartit.com

Welcome to the city.

Here the sky is not turquoise but a thin screen of gray smog. Within the walls of its monochromatic buildings and skyscrapers, people appear to be streaks of black and gray ink. The people in the sidewalk parade to their respective offices while others chase down yellow cabs.

The green Starbucks logo shouts to everyone to get their morning latte or ebony-black espresso. A mischievous white poodle, strangled with his leash, sprays the devil-red fire hydrant by the corner with his blessings.

II. Dusk

© tara jade

From grey pavements to an orange sunset kissed with a bashful pink.

A heavy midnight blue curtain is draped from the heavens, a mild purple caresses the horizon. In the evening the city is not the city. From a rusty black-and-white television set it transforms into Las Vegas. Every rose turns fuchsia, every tower is coated with brilliance.

The silent streets are filled with the cars' headlights and every building participates in the captivating display of lights that enamors the soul. The waters mirror the vibrant hues of the city, scaring away the phantoms of grief.

Everyone celebrates before the morning seeps back in, painting everything back to gray.

___________________________________

Vibrant Hues: The City by KASH

Week 5

© -sou-

"Come in. We're Open."

This sign greeted the young man at the entrance. Though still unsure, he decided to go in.

The bank was like any other bank: the glass doors, the bright fluorescent lights, the marble flooring. There were a lot of desks, stacks of papers sitting on each, and a far more lot of people falling in line. It was one of winter's coldest days that all of the heaters were turned on. Accenting the common-looking establishment was a vault of tremendous size occupying the far back, sitting cold and silently watching everyone's movement.

"Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?" asked a man in a black suit; 'Roger Cruz' was embossed in the man's nameplate.

"Well I, uhm -. I'm not really sure."

"Would you like a tour, sir?"

Roger Cruz who turns out to be the bank's manager, escorted the young man further inside.

"What is this place?" asked the man.

"This is a Memory Bank. Well, when we use the word 'memory' we refer to everything that has happened and will happen to one person."

The man was dumbfounded. Bank, memories - they don't seem to fit. Before he could ask another question, Roger spoke.

"We operate the way ordinary banks do. You deposit, you withdraw, you loan et cetera. Instead of cash though, we only accept memories, sensations, emotions."

Dumbfounded still was the young man.

"You could deposit memories - be it good or bad. When you deposit good memories, you'll be left with only the bad ones; deposit the bad ones and be left with the good ones. We get a lot of the latter case. The former, well, I guess some are really masochistic in nature."

Confusion.

"Deposited good memories will earn interest. When you decide to withdraw them, you'll be earning more good ones. The same goes for depositing bad memories."

Wonder. Understanding.

"You could also loan good memories. Here 'memory' is not just about one's past but also everything that are bound to happen to one person. We could lend you good things that are to happen to you. But, you know what happens when one exhausts all his happy memories, right?"

You'll be left with bad ones - this the young man understood. After savoring everything good, the painful ones will just creep into your bed at night, enveloping you, suffocating you to death. Or to madness.

"Why would anyone choose to exhaust all his good memories? That's mad!"

"Simple: people are desperate." answered Roger. "Most are desperate for happiness, some for sadness. Yes, sadness. Remember how others, after break-ups and other heartbreaking events, choose to listen to depressing songs? That's basically the idea. Some don't really want to heal the wounds they've got. They want to suffer, and convince themselves that the world owes them good stuff."

The man couldn't look at Roger in the eye for this he also understood. He knew sorrow, desperation. In fact, he knew it too well - that's why he went there in the first place. He wanted to find solace by forgetting the divorce, his ex-wife's custody of their son - all the pain and suffering.

Unable to admit his defeat, the young man left quickly. Roger stared at the glass doors, watched the young man battle the heavy storm outside.

"Sir, you have a call from Mrs. Fuentes." said one woman in uniform.

"He'll be back." said Roger. "Persistentes recuerdos, la gente desesperada."*

"Sir?"

"Nothing. Send Mrs. Fuentes' line to my office."

*Persistent memories, desperate people.

___________________________________

Memory Bank by KASH

Week 4

Dear, sweet Kimberly,

Yes, your name would've been Kimberly. I would've been ecstatic the day mom would've given birth to you, to us. Though I wouldn't really be able to tell you or anyone else, I know you'll know I love you - we're twins anyway.

By the way, I'm your sister Katie.

© photoshoparama - Dan

Hey Little Sis,

Tomorrow's my first day to school. I have pencils and crayons and snacks in my bag. I'm excited but I'm also scared. What if there are bullies there? I saw some on TV and they could be really mean. Good thing there aren't any bullies there in heaven - Mom said. At least you're safe. Wish me luck!

PS: Did you get the letter I sent you? Mom said that if I tie my letter in a balloon and let it fly, it'll reach you in heaven. Send me a reply as soon as you get it, 'kay?

© aeionic

Dearest Kimmy,

It's our 8th birthday today! I really wish you were here, I wanted to celebrate with you. I miss you.

We'll come visit you after going to church. I'll light and blow 8 candles for you. Happy birthday!

Kim,

Ugh. Why did the zit god decide to play tricks on my face today? This is the worst day ever! Oh zits, go away! Prom's in a few days!

© la_sendi

Oh Kimmy!

Billy asked me to prom, can you believe it? (Yes he did, despite my zits. Wasn't that sweet?) I have to be beautiful on prom night. Do you think I'll get my first kiss? I'm jumping around my room this minute! I wish you were here to help me choose a dress and a do. Plus, we could've even worn matching outfits!

My dearest sis,

After years of studying, I finally got my diploma! I'm sorry if I got you worried the time I wanted to drop out of school. I just want to let you know you're my inspiration. This one's for you.

My Kimberly,

I'm getting married. His name's Mike, I work with him in the office. Oh Kim, I'm so happy that I wanted to fly up there and hug you tight!

And give you the wedding invitation myself. I wanted you to be my maid-of -honor.

I terribly miss you.

© Sparks68

Dear Sis,

Guess what? Mike and I are expecting a baby! I mean, BABIES! Yes, we're having twins! I'm filled with happiness Kim, but I'm also terrified.

Oh Kim, please pray for my safe pregnancy. I don't know if I'll survive if one of them dies.

To the little sister I never had,

Here I sit in your grave, the skies as clear as summer, writing yet another letter. I hope Kevin and little Kim's antics don't bother you much. Tell me though if they do; I'll lessen their TV time.

©

Doğum bebek fotoğrafçısı Özlem Turan

I love and miss you, sis. I hope you never forget that.

___________________________________

To The Little Sister I Never Had by KASH

Week 3

© kara o'keefe

Hector's every breath was a gust of despair, every blink a wave of remorse.

Sitting in his living room he can’t help but remember – and blame Laura for his miserable life.

Yes, it was all Laura's fault. Her amethyst eyes and glorious locks were culprits to a heinous crime - they made Hector fall in love.

Blue skies, a variety of flora in bloom – it was a lovely day in the spring of 1996 when they first met. Hector paid his mother a visit in the hospital and there was Laura: Dr. Laura Smith. With confidence he asked her to dinner; with a gracious smile, she refused.

That didn’t make Hector waver though. The following day, Dr. Laura Smith’s was surprised to find her office adorned with flowers, on her desk a teddy bear sat with “Press Me” on its tummy.

“Even if spring never withers, it still won't be able to compete with your radiant beauty,” it said when Laura pressed the little stuffed animal. “Will you join me for dinner?”

Hector came in holding a board that read “Please?” Amused, Dr. Smith accepted his invitation.

From friendly dates to movie dates to the first night they slept together - Hector fell more deeply in love with Laura that after a year of being together, he proposed to her. On the 26th of May, they vowed to love each other, a vow sealed with their ‘I do’s.’

Five years later, Hector sat in the living room where he and Laura used to plan their lives. Have children, have a day care – all of their plans were shattered the night Laura was shot dead by a lunatic who drowned himself by the river after committing the murder that crushed Hector's heart to pieces.

The day the faint tinge of Laura’s perfume that used to linger on her favorite chair faded, Hector broke down; it was like saying goodbye to her all over again. If only his great love for the woman would be gone as easily as how the waves leave the shore, he often thought.

If only.

Spring will never bloom for him again - and all he could do was count the tears the heavens shed on that overcast evening.

________________________________________

Missing Spring by KASH