It was a tragic incident. Losing a loved one always is. But this tragedy struck the small town of Twin Peak Valley like a lightning bolt, and disappeared just the same. Even the parents of the missing girl passed by her empty coffin, without so much as a glance. It was as if the whole thing never happened.
Hands instantly reach up, cradling a broken nose. No matter how tight my hold is, the blood still seeps through my fingers. It drips down my arm and grows cold against the warm summer air.
And this is the way it has to be.
With a heavy sigh, my hands leave my face to push myself up from the ground. I begin walking down the dirt road. Trees are silhouetted against the setting sun, and really, it’s a gorgeous town.
Except the crops.
The moon cannot shine without the sun. This is how they are with each other, these two women. Although it’s hard to tell who’s the sun and who’s the moon sometimes. Perhaps it doesn’t matter, as long as they both rotate, they both keep swimming through the stars.
Bored. That’s how he feels. He cuts his business cards into rectangles and proceeds to fold them into ninja stars. A trick he learnt from the internet on another slow day where he was just as he is now. Bored.
He is surrounded by shelves of antiques, years of history. Valuables, collectibles. Porcelain dolls once held dear by young children. The power and the spirit of the people who owned these possessions should move through him like a great wave. No. Instead he sighs loudly in boredom. Continue reading “A Doll Speaks”
She wore a large black, straw hat with a red ribbon, that’s what he first saw and what he first remembered. It was freakishly large, he thought, and perhaps in another life it wasn’t meant to be a hat. It was meant to be a roof. A tent. Shelter for the broken hearted, anything but a hat. In this life it framed her face perfectly and outlined her delicate cheeks and jawline. In this life, it was meant to bring out beauty. Continue reading “The Bench”
“He is going to die,” Death says to me. I follow his gaze to a man who appears to be in his late twenties. He’s sporting shaggy black hair and a leather jacket. The man smiles apologetically as he fumbles in his pocket for coffee money. I turn back to Death and with a raised eyebrow the first thing I ask is,
“Why?” Continue reading “Nox”
“I am the ultimate symbol of control. I have the ability to carry life and take it away. I had you captured from the start, although you didn’t know why. When you took away my control, you ended your own life. In that sense you have no one to blame but yourself.” Continue reading “Blue Eyes: A Rendition of ‘Bluebeard’ by Charles Perrault”
Cat M. Lalonde 