Under Six feet

by Elsa Osweiler, Form V

The suffocating darkness was impossible to ignore. Its putrid breath was a constant whisper in my ear, a foul and inescapable reminder of exactly what I was: dead. Here you go now, your hand springing up to stifle a delicate gasp of pity that has escaped from lips washed with a shock-white pallor. I can assure you that your dramatics are not necessary, least of all to the dead. No amount of pity will lift us from this new state of ours, in which our essence is eternally suspended like a still, chill breath, no longer inhibited by the tangible restraints of the living. This story, however, is (quite ironically) not that of the realm of the deceased, but rather that of those we leave behind. Grant me patience and allow me to explain.

It must have been exactly a year after my passing, since I had felt several gentle patters of bouquets delicately placed upon my lieu of eternal rest. I found it fascinating how I could still discern the minute flutter of a petal, the soft plop of the odd tear, yet was void of any emotion. I was, after all, the victim of the so-called tragedy that so moved my mourners. Should I not have shared in their sorrow?

I suppose that my being “gone” (as the living would naively say) in reality affected me so little, thus immunizing me from its lachrymatory effects, but I digress. Yes, it must have been the first anniversary. After some time of scattered petal-flutters and tear-plops, I received a far more notable visit.

First came a firm set of footsteps, echoing with a determination that distinguished it from my previous guests. A second pair followed, its soft pat-pats on my grassy grave much mellower, just shy of a tiptoe. The third and final footsteps approached, silently shrieking with anxiety and kicking up puffs of earth in their path. The trio needed not have even spoken for me to divine exactly who they were.

Echo was of course the first to speak, his words just as solemn as his footsteps. “There is no need to blame ourselves. A full year has passed, and there is as little to do about this whole affair now as there was in the moment. Accidents, unfortunate as they are, are just that. Of course it is desperately tragic that he is gone,” (you now see what I meant about the naiveté of the living!), “but that is hardly our fault. Now I hope that this little visit of ours will give us closure, allow us to move on from this unpleasantness. We all know he would wish the same, don’t we?” How convenient that “he” was unable to reply.

Tiptoe piped up next, her words muffled by a hand that, although I could not see it, I imagined would be tear-stained and flushed, judging by her stifled sobs throughout Echo’s self-exoneration. “Oh, I have missed him so dearly! I try to remember that it was an accident, just a terrible, terrible accident, but it’s so difficult when I picture him that day all…” She trailed off before quickly adding “you remember” in a near whisper. “Anyhow, I’m just so sorry about the whole thing. I really loved him, you know?” Oh Tiptoe, always taking sympathy for granted. The worst was that, with that innocence her treacly voice feigned, she always received it. I may not have recognized it when I could still be swayed by her glossy, pleading eyes, but I was not so easily fooled on the other side.

Finally, Shriek broke his nervous silence. “Should we be discussing this here, today? Anyone could overhear—”

“Overhear what,” interrupted Echo, “a group grieving the loss of a friend?”

“You know this is more than that. What happened that day was—”

“An accident. An unfortunate tragedy. That is all,” insisted Echo, his voice tinged with impatience.

“I’m just not certain that this get-together is such a good idea, given the,” I felt him pause, gauging Echo’s expression, “unusual circumstances of the incident.” His hands trembled so violently that the earth danced around me.

“Oh! You don’t really think this was our doing, do you?” cried Tiptoe, hysterical. I could almost see her strike a victim’s pose: hand over rosebud mouth, eyes fluttering as if a fainting spell were imminent.

“Enough! I brought you here to put an end to the endless rumination about that day. What is done is done and is none of our concern,” Echo stated with an air of coolness that poorly veiled his slight panic.

“But what about—”

“If you know what is good for you, you will abstain from completing that sentence,” hissed Echo before poor Shriek could finish his thought. “We are not to blame. We did nothing wrong.” If that was so, Echo, why the mantra?

“I suppose you’re right,” Shriek conceded. Disappointment clings on long after life lets go.

On that sour note, the six feet receded and trailed away. I no longer had the luxury of feeling, doomed to simply be for eternity, but my living self would have been brimming with fiery ire, craving the sweet bite of revenge. I cannot fault him, for I can only imagine the injustice of it all: those who put him in his premature grave going back to the life they robbed him of, fabricated halos concealing their guilt-ridden faces.

laSt cOin

by Catherine Guo, Form VI

The smoke couldn’t rise from the chimney, so it rose from the broken walls. There is a thick layer of dust covering everything, a few cartridge cases hidden here and there. She clung to her little baby, who had once lit her life, with a bitter smile and a drop of tear in her eyes that didn’t have time to fall.

A clock sat in the corner. A broken hand can never turn back time. Children held on tight to their last coin. It’s the time now. They said it’s enough. Pigeons will rush out from the smoke and the daybreak. So will you. Rush towards me, pull me out of the mess and tell me that it’s all over now.

Safe SpOt

by Lauren Souaid, Form VII

I trot down beige carpeted stairs to the basement with the colourful puzzle-piece foam mat I learned to crawl on. The glowing TV catches my eye as it illuminates the darkest corners of the dimly-lit room. The lively tune of animated characters singing lingers in the back of my head mixed with all the other hazy memories. I take a seat on the microfiber couch. I feel myself sink into the smooth brown cushions.

The couch I sat on each morning drinking warm milk from a green sippy cup. The same couch

I cradled my sisters on for the first time. I slide open the connecting door to the cold, unfurnished, unrenovated room, my feet covered in dirt and dust. The place that frightened me at first––pitch black, filled with cobwebs––soon became my safe place. My favourite hide-and-seek spot, where I could never be found.

cUltUred kitchen

by Paul Akinwunmi, Form VII

To a four-year-old, all doors are colossal. I sit on the white ceramic floor, captivated by the chills I feel through my legs and palms. I glance around, but the doors seem bland. One in particular manages to grab my attention, the one situated behind me. I tilt my head as far as possible.

It’s the kitchen, with its concoction of smells, each transporting me to a contrasting part of the Earth, allowing me to travel freely.

Enchanted by the prospect of more discovery, I enter. There is a contrast, a rather stark one. It is just as I expected. Everything moves freely, in some sort of synchronized chaos.

The stoves are singing, the utensils are arguing, hitting each other, creating an unintentional melody. Often enough, the drawers join in, adding their noise complaints, in the form of thuds.

StrangerS fOr a while

by Priscilla Akinwunmi, Form V

They surround her. They entreat themselves into analyzing every aspect of her soul. She didn’t grow up here; they can tell by her fugitive freckles and her eyes, dipped ever so slightly in cement. Where there is a welcome, there are foreigners no longer.

Slight tugs when strolling down the street with the dog’s leash in hand, and trips to the kitchen when twilight dawns. She is assuredly part of the family.

It’s easy to forget that the thorns of our character are reserved for our relatives and friends, and our roses, for strangers.

hiS fleSh

by Mulan Fan, Form V

People pass by him, some scared, others disgusted. “How imperfect,” they scoff––crossed eyes, maimed limbs, mustache disheveled like shriveled seaweed. His wave of breath flows so faintly that it can’t even lift a petal. Yet, love is his only disability. But there, a girl stands still, looking through his tragic dark eyes, then runs towards him, kisses and kisses until she’s breathless. “How beautiful,” she praises while stitching his fragmented body together, for she sees a red flower blooming wildly in his flesh.

The Path

by Maël L’Her, Form VII

If you wish to cross this barren land you must first empty your hand. Release all things you hold dear, for if you lose them on the way you just might shed a tear. The path has been long deserted, but don’t let yourself be disconcerted; this journey is very simple if you stick to the plan. Watch out for the traps laid out in front of you and when you reach an inevitable bypass, find the man that will let you through; he should be nearby, lying on the grass. It will not be easy; the road’s trials will keep you busy. But if you reach the end of it, find yourself a comfortable place to sit and enjoy. Your hard work has come to fruition.

Swan SOng

by Elsa Osweiler, Form V

I found you in the dark, Saw you beckon from the hole I dug to rot in, Your cherub-soft face exposing my hands yellowed by time, Like sweet moonlight spilling into an attic window.

I am at the mercy of your every move, Bound to you by invisible yarn, Pulling me, dragging me wherever you go, The faithful shadow you ignore.

You are the wind, the tide, the spinning of the Earth, My cruel puppeteer, Tugging at my heartstrings as if I were a toy, As if I were on the edge of life, as if you were just a boy.