Isabella Billet
Keys to Life
The keys on the piano are crisp white and completely vacant from the
swirling textures of fingerprints. Its sound is silence.
Eyelashes flutter as the child sees for the first time, untouched and
delicate as they remain wrapped in a hammock of arms.
The man's ten fingers emerge and rest on the keys. The surfaces are
now detailed with new markings. Its sound is still silence.
Hands and knees touch the carpet as the child moves throughout the
room, no longer an arm's length away from protection.
The subtle hum from a key is distributed throughout the room,
outstretching its arms and trying to grasp as much space as possible.
The piano no longer has silence.
The child's footsteps quicken as they rush home with tears falling
down their hopeless cheeks, awaiting a grasp of comfort as they feel
hurt for the first time.
His fingers dance quickly against the keys as a rhythmic melody fills
the house, here and there a missed note corrupting the piece.
Two hands intertwine as the child stares at the boy she loves,
smiling at the memories she has made with him and hoping for more when
she sees him again.
The piano is silenced once again, the man's fingers no longer
pressing on the keys. The child stands over her father's grave as she
sheds a tear.
The woman rests her hand on the keys as the other sits on her baby
bump; she is prepared to begin her child's song.
Colors
The purr of waves crashing upon the shore filled the boy’s ears as he
grasped the sand beneath him, running the tiny grains through his
fingers and picking out the ones that slipped under his nails. The
salty air danced through his hair, tossing it back and forth ever so
effortlessly.
He blinked his eyes.
White dollops of snow fell from the sky and onto the boy’s skin,
causing goosebumps to appear quickly on his bare arms. He stuck his
tongue out and allowed small flakes to land on it, forming water in
his mouth.
His eyelids fluttered.
Soft red cotton wrapped around his body from head to toe as the boy
buried his nose and mouth in the covers of his bed so that only his
eyes were visible. He breathed in deeply, relaxing his muscles and
sinking them deep into the mattress.
He closed his eyes.
Chalk dust was layered over his palms, almost as if it took the place
of his skin. Rain fell on his shoulders and in seconds soaked into the
concrete around him. Swirling colors of ocean blue, snow white, and
ruby red meandered like a pool around him.
He pressed his eyes shut.
The pools around him remained and the rain continued to fall; an empty
canvas surrounded him.
I Feel It
The wind is like a rude awakening.
My mother rushed out of the house screaming and crying when she had
found out my father was dead. I tried to stop her but I couldn't even
hold back my own tears, let alone hers. So I watched her stumble to
the outside as she hoped that something out there would reverse the
mess we were in. It was storming that day.
The wind is like a ghost.
I sat out in the backyard as I tried to block out the noise and chaos
from inside of the house. I covered my ears so I heard nothing, and I
closed my eyes so I saw nothing. Every so often a breath of air would
move its way under my clothes and send a cold shiver down my spine and
along my arms. It was a breezy afternoon.
The wind is like a child.
I walked through the park with my little brother, my hand closely
intertwined with his. The warmth of the sun beat down on us, perfectly
in sync with the tickling currents that danced around us. My cell
phone rang. Mama had cancer. It began to storm.
The wind is like my friend.
My brother, sick mother, and I all sat at the dinner table, holding
hands. We said grace in harmony, blessing the food on the table. My
mother's caregiver opened the window, and a gentle gust of wind
entered, flowing through the gaps of our fingers.
Hi, dad.
The keys on the piano are crisp white and completely vacant from the
swirling textures of fingerprints. Its sound is silence.
Eyelashes flutter as the child sees for the first time, untouched and
delicate as they remain wrapped in a hammock of arms.
The man's ten fingers emerge and rest on the keys. The surfaces are
now detailed with new markings. Its sound is still silence.
Hands and knees touch the carpet as the child moves throughout the
room, no longer an arm's length away from protection.
The subtle hum from a key is distributed throughout the room,
outstretching its arms and trying to grasp as much space as possible.
The piano no longer has silence.
The child's footsteps quicken as they rush home with tears falling
down their hopeless cheeks, awaiting a grasp of comfort as they feel
hurt for the first time.
His fingers dance quickly against the keys as a rhythmic melody fills
the house, here and there a missed note corrupting the piece.
Two hands intertwine as the child stares at the boy she loves,
smiling at the memories she has made with him and hoping for more when
she sees him again.
The piano is silenced once again, the man's fingers no longer
pressing on the keys. The child stands over her father's grave as she
sheds a tear.
The woman rests her hand on the keys as the other sits on her baby
bump; she is prepared to begin her child's song.
Colors
The purr of waves crashing upon the shore filled the boy’s ears as he
grasped the sand beneath him, running the tiny grains through his
fingers and picking out the ones that slipped under his nails. The
salty air danced through his hair, tossing it back and forth ever so
effortlessly.
He blinked his eyes.
White dollops of snow fell from the sky and onto the boy’s skin,
causing goosebumps to appear quickly on his bare arms. He stuck his
tongue out and allowed small flakes to land on it, forming water in
his mouth.
His eyelids fluttered.
Soft red cotton wrapped around his body from head to toe as the boy
buried his nose and mouth in the covers of his bed so that only his
eyes were visible. He breathed in deeply, relaxing his muscles and
sinking them deep into the mattress.
He closed his eyes.
Chalk dust was layered over his palms, almost as if it took the place
of his skin. Rain fell on his shoulders and in seconds soaked into the
concrete around him. Swirling colors of ocean blue, snow white, and
ruby red meandered like a pool around him.
He pressed his eyes shut.
The pools around him remained and the rain continued to fall; an empty
canvas surrounded him.
I Feel It
The wind is like a rude awakening.
My mother rushed out of the house screaming and crying when she had
found out my father was dead. I tried to stop her but I couldn't even
hold back my own tears, let alone hers. So I watched her stumble to
the outside as she hoped that something out there would reverse the
mess we were in. It was storming that day.
The wind is like a ghost.
I sat out in the backyard as I tried to block out the noise and chaos
from inside of the house. I covered my ears so I heard nothing, and I
closed my eyes so I saw nothing. Every so often a breath of air would
move its way under my clothes and send a cold shiver down my spine and
along my arms. It was a breezy afternoon.
The wind is like a child.
I walked through the park with my little brother, my hand closely
intertwined with his. The warmth of the sun beat down on us, perfectly
in sync with the tickling currents that danced around us. My cell
phone rang. Mama had cancer. It began to storm.
The wind is like my friend.
My brother, sick mother, and I all sat at the dinner table, holding
hands. We said grace in harmony, blessing the food on the table. My
mother's caregiver opened the window, and a gentle gust of wind
entered, flowing through the gaps of our fingers.
Hi, dad.
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