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.

Week 29

© Kyera Bianca

A tiny community of sixteen lived inside of me. If given a closer look one will see that they bear the same face but carry different auras.

Their chief is named Love. Sometimes called "Passion," Love is kind and always thought of what's best for the community. She is adored by many, yet still hated by some.

Inspiration is a free spirit seeking for adventure, always leaving the community behind. Her absence meant Sloth, with his sweet lies, bossing everyone around leaving Dream, the fragile one, suffering the most. I always spend at least a couple of days looking for Inspiration, often in the library or in playlists and sometimes even in other people's souls, but all the trouble's worth it when I find her and order is restored.

The enigmatic family of Wisdom and Choice and their twins Good and Evil is arguably the most bizarre family to exist. Without Acceptance who, in the simplest terms the family's "counselor," chaos will befall on us. Or at least on me.

Best friends Luck and Chance are merry and fleeting, and I only get to talk to them through brothers Guts and Courage. It's funny though, how often I see those two hang out with Fear in various occasions.

Vanity is the loudest of them all but I try to shut her out. I can't tell though what happens more: I succeeding in doing so or I losing in vain in trying.

The sixteenth little me, though, I haven't really talked to. All I know is that she was the opposite of Vanity in many ways, but undeniably had a resemblance with her, as well as the rest of the members of the community.

The sixteen different little me's are sixteen jigsaw puzzle pieces that make me what I am. The absence of one makes me an essay with no conclusion. Without one I am more incomplete than an idea with no body.

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Sixteen by KASH

Week 28

© Tamara Lichtenstein

Dear James,

You continue to write me letters even though you're not the type who is comfortable with words. I wanted to return you the favor so I decided to write you this one. Besides, for some unexplainable reason, your light snoring inspired me to grab a pen.

There are a lot of things I love about you, and please know that I am eternally grateful for each of them.

I love how you never fail to send me 'good morning' texts. Knowing that I'm the first person you think of when you wake up makes me as giddy as a shopaholic on a shopping spree.

I love how paranoid you are: how you panic when I have to come home late alone and how you scold me when I sleep late or walk in the rain, thinking that I will easily catch a cold or something. Remembering how upset you were when I refused to take your jacket that one drizzly afternoon makes me... smile. Not that I take pleasure in your pain, love, but seeing how much you cared fills me with happiness so warm it might be mistaken that I have a fever.

I love how you choose to lose our arguments just so I would win. I love how you make a complete fool of yourself in your attempts to make me smile, and how satisfied you are when you succeed.

I love how we have nicknames for each other.

I love how you always hold my hand.

I love how you beat Michael Cera in being awkward.

I love how protective you were of that so-called 'macho facade' but you end up carrying my stuff anyway.

I love how, during that one time I was totally down, you sent me a text message with song lyrics. You explained that those were the words you would've sung for me only if you weren't at the mall during that time. Later that night, you called me and sang me to sleep. That made me feel a whole lot better, really.

I love how I often catch your brown eyes staring at me when you think I'm not looking.

I love how you give me tight hugs from the back.

I love how you beat my to-do list in reminding me to have dinner, knowing how I often miss it because I work too much.

I love how scared you are of IV's. And I also love how much more scared you are of the thought of me leaving you.

I love how you think of me still, even on a boys' night. Remember those instances when you would borrow your friend's cellphone just to text me and know how I'm doing? How about those times when you refuse - or at least try - to drink because you know I don't approve of alcohol?

I love how much you hated me crying, and how a Kit-Kat conveniently lies on your pocket because you know it was the only sure way of making my tears stop.

This list could go on forever, love, but simply put, I love how much you love me. I pray my shy kisses and baked cupcakes are enough to convey how much I love you too.

The luckiest girl alive,

Ellie

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A Love Letter by KASH

Week 27

© anne he.

We were two silly girls who loved to sew flower crowns and made pinky promises before parting when it was time for supper.

Our favorite pinky promise sounded a little bit like “best friends forever,” I think.

The flower crowns pressed in our diaries have wilted long ago, and those pinky promises hung in the air like lyrics of an old song we fail to recall.

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Flower Crowns and Pinky Promises by KASH

Week 26

Shana was trembling like a wet cat when I carried her to my bedroom. My shirt was wet with my little sister's tears but I couldn't put her down to bed. Not with her arms tightly wrapped around me and not with her heart broken.

I knew I did the right thing, but hearing my little sister's broken sobs made me blame myself for every screaming "fuck you" she heard downstairs. I wondered what would've happened if I didn't tell my Mom about Dad... and his other family. Maybe if I kept my mouth shut, we would be happily having dinner now - Shana was going to show off the drawing she made of our family to Dad and we'll be all praise to her little masterpiece. But, who am I kidding? The uttered word was the only thing I can't take back, and I knew these lies and secrets would soon creep in one night and strangle our family photo.

"There, there now, honey. Hold on tight to Mr. Tickles, okay? I'll be right back," I said to Shana after convincing her to loosen her grip on me, placing her on my bed.

"Don't go, Jenna." My little sister was tugging my shirt, holding back her tears.

I kissed the top of her head and smiled. "Wait here."

I tiptoed my way downstairs and heard a glass shatter before reaching the final step. The screams did not lessen.

"Look Karen, we don't have to go through this. Think of Shana, for Pete's sake! She's only five!"

"Are you kidding me? YOU should've thought of our daughters before having an affair! You're a whore, Ronald! You're a whore! Fuck you!"

Mom was throwing everything she laid hands on to Dad. He didn't move and at a split second, Dad saw me at the foot of the stairs.

"You! See what you've done? This is all your fault!"

"My fault? I'm not the one who cheated on my wife and my family! Why don't you just go back to your other family, huh Dad?"

My right cheek stung and it took me half a second to realize that Dad hit me. My own father hit me. I froze in place.

"How dare you, Ronald! Get out of this house! I don't want anything to do with you!" Mom furiously pushed Dad away and stood in front of me like she always does.

Seeing how resolved Mom was, Dad stormed out and smashed the door shut.

"Are you okay, honey? Wait here, I'll go get the medicine kit in the bathroom."

Shocked I couldn't move when Mom left me in the living room. I didn't realize that my right hand was shaped into a fist and it hurt. I took deep breaths to calm myself and then I learned what was that glass that shattered.

Mom threw the picture frame where Shana placed her drawing. On the floor lay Shana's dream of a happy family, with shattered glass surrounding it.

The tensed silence that engulfed the room was disturbed by my broken sobs.

© faith.minnich

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Shattered Glass by KASH