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.

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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.

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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.

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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...

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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.

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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.

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Inked by KASH

Week 39

© JenniPenni

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

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Twins by KASH