Week 52

© Roman Muradov

“What do you mean Row 207? That’s unacceptable!”

“Don’t complain now, Carolina. We’re lucky enough to get a seat. You don’t know how much I had to pay those scums to get a ticket.”

“Fine! Just don’t forget why we got here. I expect to go home with Victoria.”

Mr. and Mrs. Jones were opposite poles. The bespectacled Christopher Jones, pudgy like his bank account, married Carolina Sta. Barbara, stick-figure and unrefined manners included, six months after he got her pregnant. Three months later they had bright Tommy whom they sent to Christopher’s relatives in Canada to study.

Earlier that morning, the arguing couple answered an ad Mr. Jones received in his e-mail:

Come one, come all!

Victoria is in need of a new home.

Name your price, shout and call,

This royal piece of jewelry could just be yours!

The underground auction house Elena’s was giving away Victoria, a rare pink diamond unearthed in Africa the previous year and was cut to a roughly 400-carat necklace charm on an intricately designed white gold chain, along with other rare gems collected from different black markets across the globe.

“That beauty’s the last piece to be auctioned today so please be patient and don’t cause any trouble,” reminded Mr. Jones.

A lot of gem collectors went to the said event, buzzing and eyeing possible competition to their most coveted stones. Carolina Jones sat on Seat 207, too far from the stage for her liking, and cursed Christopher for the nth time. A few minutes later, a man in a black sleek tux went onstage.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen! Count your cash because here comes our first item,” announced the young man as he signaled to another pushing a cart. On it was the bluest sapphire the couple had ever seen.

“The Mermaid’s Last Tear, ladies and gentlemen,” said the auctioneer, “bluer than the seas of Greece itself, is a 100-carat sapphire rumored to calm the wearer’s spirit. Shall we begin at thirty thousand for this treasure?”

One by one the people in Elena’s placed their bids until the Mermaid’s Last Tear was sold to Mrs. Valencia, a famous gem collector and gambler, at two hundred forty thousand dollars.

A lot of rare jewelry followed and even the dust from shaping the Cullinan Diamond was sold at such a large sum. After selling the ruby Dragon’s Eye, the auctioneer beamed at center stage.

“The moment we’ve all been waiting for has arrived. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…” The auctioneer paused for effect. “Victoria!”

The other guy in tux wheeled in Victoria and everyone was awed by its splendor. Mrs. Jones who had been drooling at the previous jewelries stood to get a clearer glimpse of her most coveted Victoria (though she need not stand to see its beauty). Even Mr. Jones was convinced that the jewel was worth an investment.

“Four hundred-carat Victoria, chained on an intricately-designed white gold chain specifically designed for its exquisite beauty, is a rare pink diamond shipped here from another continent. This rarity once belonged to the Salazar family, one of the largest business tycoons a decade ago. Until various catastrophes inexplicably landed on their doorstep, that is”

“Cursed this diamond, they say. But something this exquisite couldn’t bring such misfortune now, can it? I know how long you’ve waited for this so without further ado, let the bidding begin! Let us start at a million dollars.”

“One million dollars!” cried Mrs. Jones, waving the fan given to her at the entrance and was literally jumping.

“One million and six hundred!”

“One million and seven hundred and fifty!”

“One million and eight hundred!”

“Two million!” shouted Mrs. Valencia.

“Two million and five-hundred!”

Panicking with the others’ bids, Mrs. Jones shouted: “Three million!” Mr. Jones was all sweaty.

“Three million for the very eager lady in white. Anyone up for anything higher than two million?”

Mrs. Jones was smug seeing that even Mrs. Valencia appeared to have withdrawn, sure of her victory. She was to give her husband a comforting smile when a young lady wearing a thick fur coat raised her fan and shouted.

“Ten million!”

Everyone looked at the young miss, taken aback by her bid. Mrs. Jones slowly turned at the young lady and gave her the look.

“Ten million for the young miss wearing a fur coat. Going once…” announced the auctioneer.

“What the –,” mouthed Mrs. Jones, but she had already gone wobbly after seeing Mr. Jones shook his head in defeat.

“Going twice… Sold for ten million dollars!” The auctioneer banged his gavel and everyone clapped, except Mrs. Jones of course, for the young bidder.

One by one, the bidders left. Mr. and Mrs. Jones went home heartbroken, puzzled as to who the young bidder was (Mrs. Jones was too numb to be angry with her husband. She threatened to divorce him when they got home though).

At Elena’s, the auctioneer was signing the papers for Victoria with the winning bidder.

“You mean you’re the Salazar heiress?”

“Yes I am. And I intend to bring Victoria Salazar’s necklace back home.”

“Have a safe trip then, Miss.” The auctioneer shook the hands with the petite young lady.

Natalie Salazar, sole heiress of the Salazar empire, carried the jewel's briefcase to her limousine. She sat there still for a while, then wrapped the briefcase with a large scarf inked with a prayer of a distant language.

“Work your magic now. To the airport, Nigel.”

________________________________________

At the Auction by KASH

Week 51

© Artwork by everyreason, via eatsleepdraw

Young Matt Carlton rushed to his bedroom after dinner and his adoptive parents shrugged at each other.

They had nothing to complain about Matt – he was studious, obedient. They only wished they knew why their twelve-year old son always hurried to his room every night.

He couldn’t say why he does though, or else they’ll go away. “They” however, were not Mr. and Mrs. Carlton.

Matt locked himself away from his adoptive parents and scanned his room of baseball and science books, everything scattered on the floor. This won’t do, he thought.

He opened his windows wide before picking his books and placing them all on his shelf. All but one, that is. He gently, almost reverently, placed Night Spirits on his night table and on top of it he put a yellow flower he didn’t know what to call.

He lit a candle and said his prayers, sank on his bed and counted to ten.

A quiet wind blew his curtains, the little flame on his candle danced wildly until it died. Matt smiled under his covers.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” said a voice, sweet and soothing and warm like the first summer breeze.

“I’m still awake, Mum,” replied Matt who pulled away from his covers to see his mom’s ghost sitting at the foot of his bed.

“I know. Thank you for the little flower, sweetheart.” The spirit smiled and kissed Matt’s cheek.

“Get up, my boy! We’re off to an adventure!” The voice of another spirit boomed in his room, opening Night Spirits to Chapter 9, The Spirits and the Living.

“Where are we going tonight, Dad?”

“We'll have a tour of the city. Hurry up now. We’ll be back before the Carltons realize you were gone.”

Matt got up and held his parent translucent hands and it felt like nothing but comfort. They asked him to close his eyes. When they asked him to open them, he was flying above his city where everyone was asleep after a difficult day; only the bright city lights were alive.

For a moment he wanted to let go of his parents’ hands and see if he could fly alone. If he didn’t, he’ll be able to fly with them anywhere soon enough anyway. He struggled to break free from his parents’ strong, ghostly grip.

“No darling. Not yet,” said his mother. Matt’s face fell.

The three of them watched the city in its slumber, visiting a few strangers' homes to invade their dreams. After the seventh house, his ghost parents took him home.

“It's time to let go now,” the ghost mother whispered and Matt let go of her hand.

“Will I see you again?”

“Soon, my boy. Real soon,” the ghost father replied. Soon was good enough for Matt.

“Be good now, alright? All our love, my darling…” Slowly, the spirits of his parents disappeared and Matt was left alone.

________________________________________

Night Spirits by KASH

Week 50

© ~Real-Nela

After drafting it with Frootloops on my desk, I have placed these notes on this sheet music, composing a melody only for you. I carefully arranged them so that you will easily catch the tune and somehow tickle your taste in music.

Will you finally hum along with my affections?

________________________________________

Tuned by KASH

Week 49

© Kadie Balfour

The balding Mr. Harris snored on his rocking chair.

His spectacles, round and thick, rested on what’s left of his hair sprinkled with chalk dust. Blind as faith, he had grown highly dependent on them (he hung them on his neck on most days so as not to misplace them). His mustache was still, his forehead creased in distress and his fake teeth were in danger of falling.

A tall glass vase stood at Mr. Harris’ side desk. Withered petals were scattered at its foot while the water inside it began to breed mosquitoes. Flies swarmed his living room and kissed the portrait of his younger self - bold and proud in his Marines uniform.

At 81, Mr. Harris couldn’t reach for the remote control without bursting a sweat. He sat on his rocking chair, shackled with old age, with his pants soaked in his urine and caked with his own feces.

Mr. Harris lived alone. More alone than anyone.

Everyone knew, of course. But nobody seemed to notice that the balding Mr. Harris’ snore was stealthily hushing, that flies were already kissing his exhausted face.

________________________________________

The Balding Mr. Harris by KASH

Week 48

© Fabienne Lin

She cultivates solitude on Sundays.

With the lone candle illumnating her room in the darkest of nights, she licks her wounds like a pagan of the distant past. She sits silently with eyes shut, an immobile tableau, and undresses her spirit; her thoughts escape her mind like pearls slipping off a string.

Loss and grief slowly creep in like the ghosts that made her bawl in her younger years. She does not stop, however. The night air cools her flushed face and she is convinced her god plunges into her emotional reservoir as she chants her prayer.

She opens her eyes, a few hours later, and hears the stubborn orchestra of crickets.

She gives thanks for that gift.

________________________________________

Cleansing by KASH

Week 47

© Erica Joy Segovia

Ten o'clock of January 15th was

Nine weeks apart.

Eight paper cranes he folded - on each was her name and a wish he made on

Seven stars and the moon that night: Camille, please be back.

Six rumors greeted him in the morning - "She's gone," they chanted.

Five times he wept and drained

Four bottles of wine that didn't numb his heart. Alas!

Three well-rehearsed words blistered

Two souls that were meant to be apart:

One barely survived when the other turned to dust.

________________________________________

Untitled by KASH

Week 46

© Rebecca Nathan

He paced back and forth in the living room, his steps atuned to the ticking of the old grandfather clock’s hand. She wasn’t home yet and paranoia swept over him – these predictions on the great Rapture terrified him. Outside the city knelt and cried for salvation.

When she finally arrived, he pulled her close. He spun a vinyl record; he held her waist and she leaned on his chest.

The earth trembled then, forming faults on the ground.

“At least we’re together, yes?”

Dark clouds piled above them but with lost hope and delirious love stronger than doomsday they waltzed.

________________________________________

The Rapture by KASH

Week 45

© chris riebschlager

White paint masked the deep scars of grudges and disappointments she had nursed for so long. Behind her were tall, glass windows where the sun’s rays that touched the young girl’s denim jumpers, the newspaper-covered floors and a steel ladder passed through. The afternoon was particularly humid and the room was a perfect canvas.

Angela stared at the bare wall and the wall stared back, like a reflection.

“Rephrase the world,” she muttered.

She stood and splashed her new-found haven with a fresh bucket of paint, freeing infinite possibilities that had once been incubated in hope but chained by fear.

________________________________________

Breaking Out by KASH

Week 44

© nikolinelr

The majority believed that in the entire human anatomy, it was the eyes that revealed man’s spirit. It’s true to some extent, but my outlet to another’s life would be the hands.

Hands tell all sorts of stories: the man with calloused, sandpaper hands worked overtime, the girl with freshly polished nails was\s set on her first date, the man with protruding veins on his wrinkled hands had tightly held her wife's on her deathbed.

Hers were my favorite. Her hands were luke-warm tea and biscuits on Sunday mornings. Hers meant safety and unconditional love.

My mother’s hands were magic.

________________________________________

Her Hands by KASH

Week 43

© wild goose chase

When she forgets that he loves her, she unties a bundle of unspoken words of affection printed on love letters and smells the pressed flowers inside the envelopes.

When she remembers that he no longer does, she throws those words on fire and watches the flame eat up every letter, every comma, every period.

When she forgets to love herself, she writes.

When she remembers she loved him even more than she would ever love herself, she writes a couple of pages more.

________________________________________

Forgetting & Remembering by KASH

Week 42

© look left and look right

In the thin line between waking up and staying asleep, I stare blankly at the ceiling of my virtually empty room while steadily breathing in and out to calm my racing heartbeat.

1,

2,

3...

I regret pushing the snooze button and pulling up the sheets over my head because after then did he enter my dreams. He is roughly the same age as I am, almost nineteen, and my too-detailed dream had covered his entirety: his slightly-freckled nose and russet hair that highlight his flinty green eyes, his nimble movements that doesn't match his impressive built and his unmistakable sincerity.

Up until now I'm trying to convince myself that everything was just part of a dream, that the awkward conversations and the more awkward silence, the utmost desire to stop time (or at least slow it down) and the fantasy of holding his hand and never letting it go were all just part of my subconscious that decided to go haywire. I loved it though, when he was by my side just like in the old days, and that I could easily close the distance between us if I extend a couple of fingers. Then a pang of pain hit me when I realized I didn't do it when I was awake, when I had the chance, when he wanted me to.

Curious, dreams are. Oftentimes they don't follow a plot you learn in Literature class; they just smack you right in the middle of the climax or sometime at the denouement, with no idea on how you got there. In this dream he went to my school to watch his friend's band perform, I think, and we were already on our way out. We stayed a few paces behind his friends, just like how we did it before.

"So, how's your stay here?" he asked.

"Fine, I guess."

We both fell silent, our anchored pace trying to keep up with the other.

"Nothing's wrong but nothing's right either," I suddenly blurted out.

He just smiled and my heart sighed, swelled and broke.

His friends were waiting for him in their service van when we got outside. After a polite goodbye he climbed up in and closed the door. I was holding the door handle until the vehicle moved and I had to let it go, only to find myself chasing them - no, him - down when they turned on the corner.

Everything felt more real then. And then I start counting slowly.

Breathe in, breathe out.

1,

2,

3...

________________________________________

Thin Line by KASH

Week 41

Artwork by Trevor Brown

Dmitri and Stephanie Lair felt like crying upon hearing that their baby girl was healthy. Nolita, a fine peaceful neighborhood in Manhattan, was freezing that fine December evening when Mrs. Lair was rushed to the hospital for an early labor. They named their little girl Noelle.

Mrs. Lair had a difficult pregnancy, and as the doctor said, Noelle was a "miracle baby." Being the only child Noelle was treated as the Lairs' most precious gem. She grew up to be a happy and bright child. At five she convincingly faked a fever and when she turned eight, sweet Noelle told her parents she wanted to be a theater actress.

When she was old enough to wear a bra, Noelle woke with blood stains on her pajamas. She came rushing to her mother, crying.

"Oh my child," said Mrs. Lair with a ringing laugh as she taught her daughter how to use tampons.

The beautiful Noelle - freckled nose, rose-blushed cheeks, golden hair and soft gray eyes - earned the admiration of men and the envious looks of women in Nolita. Yes, she did enjoy all the attention from her, as she puts it, adoring fans.

The afternoon of March 26th smelled of petrichor. Mrs. Lair was out for a friend's birthday party, and Noelle was in her room sketching costumes for a school play. Dmitri Lair was sweating hard and looking uneasy when he came to his daughter's room. Slowly, he locked the door.

***

"This will be our little secret," said Mr. Lair. With her body aching and her soul crumbling, Noelle accusingly stared as her father put back on his pants. She didn't cry when her father left, but sleep was elusive either. She was hugging her knees and her eyes were blank - paused in a tableau of disgust and disbelief. She felt completely and horribly alone.

Her mother never knew about her and her father's little secret. Mrs. Lair died, a year after, believing her husband was the perfect man and the perfect father. But Noelle knew, of course, that her mother's vision fogged with lies and illusion. With his wife gone, Mr. Lair would sneak in to Noelle in bed or at times even in the bath. Oddly enough, Noelle never grew numb from all of these; it always felt like the first time. It terrfied and sickened her to the pit of her stomach everytime her father would kiss her neck, carress her breasts and touch her all-over with his calloused hands.

On October 21st Mr. Lair came home drunk from playing poker with his drinking buddies. Noelle took paraphins and matches from the kitchen and burned their house to the ground. She walked away, never looking back. She left Nolita, and spat on the church she happened to pass by on her escape.

***

Noelle did become an actress. She would clutch on the sheets and fake moans and orgasms for men she didn't know and who didn't even bother knowing her. Instead of standing ovations she earned a lot of lustful looks from men, a few free drinks and a lot of penises.

A few years later, a huge wooden crucifix looked down on Noelle as she laid on her coffin adorned with white orchids. Her face was weary and wrinkled with age but it was still beautiful. Yes, she was beautiful.

Oh sweet Noelle of Nolita, forgive the world and its cruelties. Requiescat in pace, Noelle.

________________________________________

Noelle of Nolita by KASH

Week 40

Like the leaves that expired last fall, my watercolor tears bruised an empty page. From the inkblots of my grief a girl with the beauty of the night sky was born.

We walked two separate worlds and I wanted to bind the insolent wind in chains, jealous of how free it was to flirt with the girl's licorice locks. Despite its muted murmurs though, she turned around and with trembling lips, said hello.

I tried concealing my affections with nonchalance but her charm was stubborn like coffee stains. My gaze rested upon her face and my body ached to feel her porcelain skin and button nose. Why I injected ink in my veins made no sense but when it settled inside my body I knew there was no turning back.

She was smiling still. With a throbbing heart, I came closer, slow and precise. Our lips touched and I forgot that she was nothing more but a product of my incommunicable torment.

And then I held her hand.

I feared that in the moment my eyes becomes silent, my muse too shall bid farewell but I knew that for this tale to pursue, I must wash away the smeared ink.

________________________________________

Inked by KASH

Week 39

© JenniPenni

My words made love last night and they gave birth to twins: euphoria & anguish.

________________________________________

Twins by KASH

Week 38

© ~rumbl3fishy

In the land of gentlemen and cobblestone streets was a young boy with blonde hair and chocolate eyes. Rain poured heavily that night and only the fickle light from the streetlamps illuminated the cold dismal evening. The boy was drenched and he shivered while greying ghosts who carried umbrellas crowded the streets. All glances slipped the boy but one.

"Where are you off to, lad?" The boy turned around and found a bearded man in a black coat carrying a similarly black umbrella, a broad affable smile wrinkled his face.

"I do not know, Sir."

“That’s not very impressive now, eh, my boy?” The man lit a cigarette, the rain still pouring.

The young lad stood still. In his hands he clutched a small brown satchel that carried what he thought everything he’d need in his trip: a few cash, a bottle of milk, a loaf of bread and some cheese he stole from a store in the village. He looked forward for his great adventures ahead but here came a strange man who thought that he's just a kid fooling around.

“Tell you what, son. If you have no place to go to, why don't you come with me? I am old and I need a sturdy young kid to guide me in my journey. You don’t need to worry about food or shelter, kiddo. I’ve got them all covered for ‘ya.” The smoke he blew hugged the rain.

The kid fell silent and weighed his options.

“Where are you going?” the boy asked

“Can’t tell you that, sorry. But don’t you worry, it’s a place I call home.”

Home. The word lingered in the boy's mind and made his stomach churn.

“Anyway, I gotta go, kid.” said the man and he stepped on his cigarette butt. “Are you coming?”

The boy nodded.

The old gentleman covered the boy's head with his umbrella and, far from the gazes of the phantoms of the village, two shadows disappeared.

________________________________________

Ghosts and Shadows by KASH

Week 37

© toey™

They.

They were like a pair of socks that mirrored their half.

They were a perfect dichotomy, yes, where the existence of one depended on the other.

He and She.

But they were also he and she.

He was night and she was day.

He was persistent like reality. She, on the other hand, was fleeting like fiction.

He was a red light and she was green.

Time had long ago wilted for him while now is her season to bloom.

It's a shame that in the end only the fool was in the danger of falling in love.

________________________________________

Dichotomy by KASH

Week 36

© Kristine May

30 June 1995

9:42 P.M.

On my study

The cup of coffee that sat under the dim light of my green desk lamp already grew cold while my irregular heartbeat overpowered the songs from the radio. I could not stop my broken sobs after visiting the past 29 days of June. I took a sip of the coffee before filling the last page of a month's worth of solitude.

Do you still remember our bargain, my sweet?

"You're leaving? But why?" I asked.

"I don't really know. I just want to make sure that this is all true."

"You mean you're not sure about everything?" Traitor tears were brimming in my eyes, betraying me.

"Honestly? No. Not anymore."

It's been a month since I've last seen you or heard from you. Losing your perfume and your presence inside the house made June bleak and I couldn't wait for July to arrive.

I know I've cheated a lot: trying to call you, stalking you from work and watching your house from my car at night. My, even this diary is cheating! I admit I've lost a long time ago. May I please see you now?

You've spent too much time over there when you should be here, love. Please come home.

________________________________________

Memories of June by KASH

Week 35

© PascalCampion

Tuesday night was as cold and as silent as the early snow falling on the concrete of our city. The full moon had casted towering shadows of our neighboring apartments and oddly enough there was barely a single car passing through our often busy streets.

My windows were open at two o'clock in the morning and I thought maybe I was the single soul awake enjoying the comfort from this solitude.

I need not empty streets and snow to be free from noise, though. Silence had been my trusty companion for eternity that I stopped hating her for disabling me from enjoying the glorious fizzle from opening a soda can (Not that I have proof of the said sound being glorious but I've always wondered how it sounded like, if any). I came to realize that without her, I could've lost my sanity long ago.

While in my reverie a pile of snow suddenly fell from above. I looked up and saw that the guy living on the 9th floor had opened his windows and sat by it with his guitar. "Guess I wasn't alone after all," I thought.

The moonlight gently touched the guy's yellow hair when he started playing.

His inaudible notes drifted with the cold, wet wind but with the help of the moon, I tasted his music:

It was sweet and tender like the young man's face,

but it bore a tinge of saltiness and the bitterness of grief.

These flavors fit like holding hands

of long-time lovers on a stroll.

I clapped my hands for the young fellow when he stopped playing. He hastily wiped his tears away and looked down, saw me clapping two floors below and I swear I saw him smile before he closed his window, leaving me alone with the moon and our snow-covered street.

A cochlear hearing aid will be implanted on my ears next week and maybe, just maybe, I'd get to hear him at last.

________________________________________

It Came From Above by KASH

Week 34

© laura makabresku

While idly doodling stars on my notebook to ease the boredom of Calculus, my little brother threw me a note:

Stars were not made for wishes but for directions.

- Sean, captain

I turned around and shouted "Aye, captain!" My brother smiled and went back to fighting pirates in his bedroom.

________________________________________

Stars by KASH

Week 33

© 賴樂高

A soft wind blew secrets across the field, spreading the fragrance of the sea of flowers eagerly bowing towards the guy standing a few meters away from where I sat. He stood there, absorbed by his thoughts, and I stared at him as I do every Friday afternoon.

His shape shifted every time I strummed my guitar but he was still the same guy with disheveled brown hair wearing faded jeans, black-rimmed glasses and his favorite gray The Beatles shirt. His back was facing me but I knew he still bore that same old cheap humor and dopey smile of his. He didn't speak but his mere presence was enough.

After a few more strums his arms slowly faded away and I noticed he had already lost a leg. On the last few notes of our song he drifted back to my feeble dreams and I was alone again.

It was already dusk when my eyes couldn't cry anymore. My eyes stung but no matter how much I blinked he didn't come back.

Not even a silhouette.

________________________________________

Untitled by KASH

Week 32

© Jonathan Pearson

A ghost of a woman with a painted veil walking down the aisle is engraved in my memory. The tears that flowed from her night-black eyes haunted me but I kept my eyes open for if I blink, her world will collapse and I couldn't bear to lose her frightening beauty. Red rose petals stained the long white trail she wore like blood and everyone turned around to see her approach the altar where her groom was supposed to be in a tux, rejoicing that he was to marry the girl who gave sense to the world. She stood in front and venom came out from her trembling lips.

"Raymond's not coming. So sorry for wasting your time."

The broken bride then lifted the skirt of her gown and rushed towards the gate of the church. Once she was outside she pulled out her veil and threw it away screaming. She locked herself inside the limousine where more tears poured, smudging her make-up. Inside the church the guests exchanged guesses as to why the groom was nowhere in sight, and the bride's father threatened the groom's parents. The bride's mother coaxed her daughter to open the car's door, but the stubborn bride sank at the back of the limousine and wept at the loss of a great love.

I stood a few steps from the church and wept as well for causing the woman I love so much pain. But it was better this way, I told myself. Someday she'll meet another man and she'll fall in love again. They'd get married and have a family, and then she'd be happy. Something she won't be if she marries me.

________________________________________

Bride by KASH

Week 31

© settling ghosts~

There was once a girl who fancied skeleton keys as much as a smoker fancied a pack of cigarettes.

At a young age of 19, Nicole possessed over a hundred skeleton keys, most of which she acquired through her countless visits on various antique shops and black markets while some she inherited from her father. Every morning after breakfast, she would wear white rubber gloves, slowly pull out the topmost drawer of her study table and carefully pick up each skeleton key, placing them in a row on top of her mahogany-colored desk for inspection. In other times she would just marvel at her growing collection, thinking of how proud her father would've been.

"A skeleton key could open all doors, Nicole. That's why every household has one," her father told her one hot July afternoon, the fateful day that marked the beginning of her uncontrollable obsession that locked her away from anything else.

There was only one key she's after though. The key that will make her mother read her bedtime stories though she's too old for them. The key that will make her mother hug and kiss her before leaving the house. The key that will convince her mother that she was worthy of her affection.

She had spent many years looking for that key, but her mother's heart is locked still.

________________________________________

Skeleton Keys by KASH

Week 30

© matheus chiaratti

He is a strange boy with bones made of poetry that rhyme with his deep, soothing voice and grey sober eyes.

From the words he draw from his muse he makes a carriage that pulls me to a place where the sunset stood still on Wednesdays and where flowers smell like buttered popcorn. He paints adventure and triumph with the ink that is his blood, but also composes the saddest hymns of death and defeat. These tales scorch the coldest of hearts and make them weep, for his words were the truth and the truth was inevitable. It was the truth or insanity and I could not tell which is more forgiving.

His stories hit me like a tidal wave that washes away the weariness, but drowns me to the blackest pit of the sea, only to realize that, when my body freezes down at the abyss, his words are to haul me back to dry land. A worn-out puppet I am, but to have him as my master is more than I would ever deserve.

He is strange and enchanted and even if I wanted to I could not escape.

For in his words my being is chained and I have swallowed the key long ago.

To be away from him is to perish an existence with no music.

Or pain.

Or love.