Skeletons in the Closet: Part 1 (Louis Toliver Jr-Monroe, LA)

Once upon a time, there lived a young boy who lived what he thought to be a happy life with his father and mother. His mother worked at home and did domestic work as a good wife did. She never left the house. His father was not home much, nor spent much time with the boy, as he often traveled for work, and he worked hard as a good father did. There was only one rule for the household when father wasn't home: Never go into the father's bedroom closet.

The mother, nor young boy, had ever been in the father's closet. But this particular day, while the boy was playing alone, he heard a strange noise from his parents’ bedroom. His mother was busy doing chores so she wasn't mindful of him, as always. The boy crept up the stairs to his parents’ room and saw his father’s large closet door. He went to turn the knob; he was certain that's where the noise was coming from. It was locked. It wouldn't budge.

Normally, the boy would dare not to test his curiosity, but his father was away and his mother was busy, so he tried and tried to open the door and even pick the lock, but nothing worked. As he was about to give up, as he turned to leave, he tripped and when he hit the ground, the closet door opened slightly. A skeleton's head roll out startling the boy. Most little boys would have been scared to face what was in front of him, but not this little boy.

He got up slowly and went into his father's closet.

Comments

Come Hither (Annette Redmond Walters - Lafayette, LA)

I meant it not this way but the tears just flow and my makeup smearing all the more, leaving behind that familiar filthy residue. I may have begun to drive myself away, dragging you down as well. But it's done, I've flipped the switch and now it's dark once more. How painful is the music to my ears, I can't stand to be alone in it, yet here I am again. I pray you fly back and safely and warmly to me, though I fear I've dug the grave too deeply. As the dirt shifts within my soul, I choke on those loving words I'd meant for you. All the fragments of light I see becoming smaller and I wish to be near you in your embrace that might make me feel the warmth I'm missing. And in reality, I doubt I'd breathe another breath without you. So come hither and quickly soothe my dying heart, you are the only cure I know. I cry and cry again, come hither to heal and love me. Come hither and help me dry my tears.

Let That Fucker Burn (John Chenvert - Napoleonville, LA)

Let that fucker burn. Let the fire crackle like the whips once did— like bone meeting leather, like screams swallowed by the trees. Let the white columns crumble to ash. Not as tragedy— but as truth, unearthing itself from beneath generations of silence. Nottoway is not a mansion. It’s a mausoleum. A lie carved in stone to honor the hands that held the whip, not the backs that bore it. They called it the “White Castle.” A place of beauty. A place for weddings, for photo ops, for pretending that horror can be made elegant if the curtains match the guilt. But no paint can cover what happened there. Blood doesn’t wash out with white linens. And pain doesn’t forget just because you renamed it history. I’m not Black. And I won’t pretend to carry that weight. But I also won’t ignore it. My people—the Guanches—were taken too. Our language silenced. Our land stolen. Our names nearly erased. So yes, I know colonization. Yes, I know what it means to be disappeared. But I also know this— my skin ...

Dysfunctional (Taylor Coen - Lafayette, LA)

The flower sits before the tree, it is like an antagonist of nature. The rainbows fall against the clouds: colors burst into a buffet of light. Rain travels down into a puddle of water portraying the sight of an ugly ox. The strength is weak; it collapses to the ground, life flows out like a stream of consciousness. Back to the daisy and the overpowering oak, A lightning bolt strikes both. The war fades over, the mist evaporates, and sunshine gli mmers down upon a hidden valley.

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