The Word Was LOCK
Best Five Submissions Here:
By Sulekha Pande
You suck at everything you loser!!!
She screeched at the top of her voice, he stood there stoically taking all abuse in his stride calmly,
he took her gently in his arms….
She sobbed, mumbling sorry, I didn’t mean to darling.
Shh!!! Was all he said, stroking her hair tenderly…
They’d been married for 10 years with no kids.
He was an engineer and she was a teacher at a local school, they’d met and fallen for each other almost instantly.
She saw the kids at school and it gnawed at her insides.
She felt him growing farther and fought to keep him, she was suspecting him of seeing someone …
The late night chats, the silent calls, and his long absences.
He became more elusive and she became clingy and possessive….
The fights continued.
She became edgy and more emotional by the day as he became more aloof. Ignoring her pleas to spend time together…
His behavior was impeccable and she just couldn’t fault him anywhere, but something was very wrong.
She resigned and stayed home, unkempt, the house was in shambles soon after…
He was home less and less.
Her aggression grew and in a fit of anger attacked the neighbor’s child, resulting in an arrest.
She was found guilty of the charges but mentally imbalanced,
hence was now to stay at a facility.
He left her there, as he walked away to see her vacant eyes, he felt no remorse, no sadness, nothing at all, he was free of a wife to whom he had no intentions of paying any alimony to.
Now she was kept behind a door with a huge lock.
The key to which, he did not want to find ever…
He was free at last, to live with his lady love.
Their fates were locked.
By Mia Seña
The taste of blood and sand was that of prison bars. Before I can quench the thirst from this bitter aftertaste, another slap topples me over – this time, coming from my grandmother. “You little monster! Fighting other kids again!” The words still sting and the sight of the attic, my annual jailhouse ten years ago, never failed to suffocate me.
As a kid, I was too much. I constantly felt the need to gather the intensity of my emotions and get them out of my system. I had no hinge, no clasp, no anchor to hold me in place. Not until the lock in the attic was made — a lock specially designed to contain the chaos that is me.
Over time, I learned to suppress my rage. I mastered the art of locking myself up whenever things get too much. But within the finite space of my self-constructed prison, dark necessities manage to seep through. They cling to the four walls that outline my detachment, sliding down until they reach me. Still, I no longer search for the Key as I did multiple times when I was a child.