CLE ' S CREATIVE WRITING CONTEST
WINNERS
- 1ST PLACE -
absence.
If it really was so, then why did she
wash his clothes from the closet, folded frame, a picture of his lovable grin and
intense eyes, and she brought it closer as
his voiced whispered her name.
them all prim and proper whilst arguing
with him about the right way to fold
them? Why were his books still on the
coffee table, bookmarked, waiting for his She leaned in as his siren-like voice
gently lulled her into his grasp. Her
name on his lips, his voice, her name, his
lips, her song, his song — almost
return? Why did she wash his favorite
mug, his favorite bowl with the chip on
the rim and restock her shelves with his
favorite snacks bustling to the brim?
Why was his workbag still placed on its
side on the floor and his toothbrush
leaning against hers in the ceramic cup? sounded like her home. Almost. Her
watery eyes awoke at the pain in her
palm, scarlet red where the key had
locked into her meat flesh, buried into a
nook. She heaved at the pain and timidly
tried to yank it out. The tune around
now a chaotic cacophony, her name, his
Why was his laptop still open replaying
their old videos, his voice haunting and
echoing in this four-room apartment
time capsule buried underground with
dust-mud closing them in?
She skittered into their bedroom and
clambered onto their bed so that the
wind would stop twisting his sweet voice
to question her. Somehow, even when
she had vacuumed and dusted, the wind
found a way to bring more dust in, from
where, she never knew. But she made
sure, his side of the bed was left
untouched. She clasped the beside photo lips, silver tears and sharp red. The key
unhinged from her hand and she dashed
toward the apartment door, the floor
slipping out from under her. She burst
into the hallway and slammed it shut.
Crumbling to the floor, tear-stricken,
opening her palm to find no hole in it
but the key glinting, dust-mud grey.
slipping
rame,
IT Magazine / April Issue
10