• Poetry

    the house of whirlwinds and rainstorms

    here lies the house you dreamt up as you were reading folklore

    just like the girls growing up here, collecting daisies and trying to catch the sunlight

    as they competed for the dirtiest dress and the best kind of princesses

    that much preferred history pages and embers over glass slippers or true love’s kisses

    they were here first, before the rainstorms and the whirlwinds happened

    they were here first, wandering the halls pretending the glitter on their face was pixie dust

    and the freckles on their wrists were constellations

    they were here first, but they left the fairy lights for you

    they left the daisies carved in the front porch railings for you

    and the hollow tree behind the swing still cherishes their drawings

    just like the rose bushes still hold onto their lost hair ribbons and long forgotten tears

    the luscious garden a gorgeous kingdom just large enough for their secrets

    and for the stories they wish were in their books

    the story goes that the butterflies atop the driveway gate were the girls’ idea

    the story goes that the house wasn’t theirs, that they were travelers desperate for a home

    the story goes that they were sisters, not by blood but by stars

    the story goes that the ivy climbing the walls and windows of the mansion

    could no longer be tamed once their epilogue came to an end

    people say that once the girls learned there was no Neverland

    that the midnight hour was an actual monster, that losing your voice was not just fantasy,

    that poison did in fact come in sweet, that beauty could be cruel,

    that happily ever after was a fight rather than a given victory,

    it was as if a rainstorm broke loose and never stopped

    but maybe that wasn’t the girls’ fault

    maybe they were just the ghosts that predicted what was to come

    come inside the gate, walk the driveway

    the neighbors live a million little worlds away, telling their own stories of this place

    as they sip tea so sweet it makes you wonder what all the sugar in the world is meant to hide

    stories that are a thousand dimensions away from the actual truth, if such a thing even exists

    come now, ring the bell of the olive door as you are bewildered by primroses

    listen carefully to the sound of cats meowing and wings rustling

    that almost overshadows the soft tingling like wind bells that make your heart tingle

    come inside, enter the hallway with constellations decorating the mauve wallpapers

    rumor has it the female assassin woman who lived here painted them herself

    she turned the library into an armory and the parlor into a room filled with gowns and frocks

    after buying the house from the notorious roaring twenties socialite for whom it was a palace

    but oh well, that’s just the rumors

    let those mauve constellations catch your every heartstring

    as you stand on your tiptoes on the scarlet carpet studying the paintings of wonderland

    that are said to be drawn by the apocalyptionist couple living here after the murderess’ downfall

    come, proceed, the tour only lasts an hour

    take a look at the stunning vinyl player in rouge and lavender that will make you feel

    as if you are in a butterfly kaleidoscope

    some say it belonged to the notorious socialite

    some say it was stolen by the villainous woman who supposedly ate hearts she cut out of bodies

    others say it was the last gift the woman who always wore cardigans got from her boyfriend

    that night he admitted to cheating on her all summer long at her graduation party

    he stood on the front porch of this very house, naïve enough to still believe in a true love’s kiss

    that would patch it all up

    but word is she just took the vinyl player and shut the door in his face

    come, this house has a magnificent thirteen rooms

    in the color palette of a storybook

    close your eyes, don’t be shy

    inhale the scent of rosé-perfumed memories and freshly baked cinnamon rolls

    sweet tea greeted by epiphany sunlight and garden beets cooking

    Sunday afternoon candles and Monday evening cocktails

    take a close look at all the spice racks and recipe books in the kitchen

    you can see the sepia photos and love letters sticking out, half lost, half never meant to be found

    listen to the soft indie music playing on the rouge vinyl, take a look around

    at the tea leaves drying and the apple sauce stewing

    as you catch glimpses of a telescope and a typewriter on the back porch

    and remember the front porch with the fairy lights and jars filled with ocean rubble

    remember the rocking bench and the painting supplies

    the back porch was for the happy memories, but the front porch holds the scars of broken hearts

    the promise of a happy ending crumbling as the boy who risked it all left empty-handed

    the loneliness after a day full of people, as the notorious socialite was left alone

    the darkness of a woman so scorned she ferociously screamed into the void for an apocalypse

    the woman standing on the doorstep of her most infamous murder

    that same woman curling up on the porch steps clutching a blooded knife,

    hands shaking for the first time in her life

    oh well, that is just how the stories go, there’s no telling the truth really

    moving on, make your way to the drawing room

    where two cats sleep in blush armchairs, one tabby named Ella, one grey called Cinder

    from here, feel free to enter the breathtaking observatory

    where young papillons prepare to take flight as doves and bluebirds sing you a song

    and don’t forget the library, which holds every fairytale ever written, both cruel and pretty

    these too were left here for you by the two girls who started it all, savoring every single story

    run your finger along every history page ever forgotten, every dream ever conquered

    and realize that it was the woman called wicked by many collected them with her bare hands

    priding herself in bottling the starlight of a life envied by many, spinning twisted tales of her own

    remember to visit the attic, where you will find crescent moons and faded canvasses

    as the remains of a world ending while the earth kept on travelling around the sun just the same

    take a peek into every bedroom: they all have their own lipstick secrets and vintage myths

    just like the theatre where, as whispers say, the notorious socialite spent her final hours

    desperately trying to get lost in a world of sunken secrets much like her own

    do make sure to skip the gallery of ghost stories, though,

    for it will haunt you all the way to the manor’s other wing

    the tales of names buried, faces covered and blood shed for absolutely no reason at all

    will draw tears from your deepest cores

    and please, fiercely walk past the museum of open books in the south wing

    perhaps it was the cardigan girl, or the notorious socialite, or the vile assassin,

    but one of those women, you know, had a strange relationship with endings

    for she never could let go of what was long gone

    take your time walking the corridors

    and imagine, just imagine, the voices, the footsteps echoing, the rustling of dresses

    the silhouettes, the brushes of rosé-perfumed memories

    imagine the kingdom of ‘’what if’’ and ‘’if only’’ and ‘’could have been’’ inside these walls

    imagine the stories of moments, seconds behind the portraits gracing the staircase

    imagine that you can hear a rainstorm tearing this house apart

    imagine the windows shattering, the door break, imagine the roof collapse

    imagine the ivy, the willow trees, the rose branches desperately growing into all the rooms

    trying to protect the stories of their kingdom

    imagine the thunder in the attic, of all the times the world ended without ending

    imagine the lightning striking on the front porch

    every time the assassin woman’s knife ignited a fire in her own eyes

    imagine the kitchen, the parlor, the library and the observatory flooding

    taking away everything like all the women of this house once lost everything

    imagine an earthquake running through all the fairytale books and secret garden spots

    terrifying the fireflies and chasing away the young butterflies not yet ready to grow up

    just like those two girls with whom it all started, who had to grow up before their time

    imagine the whirlwind that tore illusions to pieces so many times

    imagine the hurricane picking up the pieces that could never make something whole again

    imagine the eclipse darkening everything like all the times the sun went down on the daylight

    imagine a sky full of stars coming down on the house to take back their constellations

    imagine a cyclone ripping the house apart,

    like all the words, minds, hearts and souls that were ripped apart here

    imagine secrets floating out onto the driveway and out the gate

    imagine truths flying out of burst windows into the garden and beyond

    imagine the dimension between true and false finding a way into the universe

    imagine the flood waves bringing along every brittle bit, every piece of paper

    and leaving it on the streets, like ashes ready for erosion

    imagine all the whirlwinds, tornadoes, thunders, rainstorms, earthquakes and hurricanes

    imagine all the floods, fires, lightnings and apocalypses breaking down this house’s every inch

    like the stories of those who lived here were broken down by each and every inch

    until every shout, every scream, every whisper, every word was silenced, hushed, muffled

    and left to folklore’s mercy

    they still haunt this house today

    the age of their era is never-ending

    so, as you take one last look over your shoulder before stepping out on that front porch again

    remember; this is the house you dreamt up

    while reading folklore

    but it could only ever be a home

    to ghosts and their stories

  • Fiction

    folklore

    Folklore. Fairytales. Sagas, myths, legends, tales. Stories. We all remember the ones that were read to us as children, tucked into beds so warm they could make us dizzy. We remember the books with more pages than we could count, the drawings we would run our fingers over like they were made of magic. We remember so well how those stories seemed to entwine themselves with our heartstrings, while at the same time they were impossible to grasp… like the bits of a dream that escapes you little by little the more you try to hold on to it. Stories of worlds, universes, galaxies far beyond our imagination, beyond our understanding, beyond our mind. Stories that were not meant to be made sense of, stories that seemed to not even come from a human kaleidoscope of ideas, that seemed too otherworldly to be a creation of this world… stories that left us with wonder, that still leave us with wonder.

    Folklore. We all remember the rumors, that flew through town, through streets and blocks and neighborhoods, like fireflies in the garden we all longed to have. The gossip that was used to brew a story of half-truths and whole lies, of a dazzling, compelling amount of ‘’what if’’ and ‘’could have been.’’ Whispers, smirks behind hands, fingers clandestinely pointed with fingernails painted bright red, birds carrying words with an in-between of fake and true  from rooftops to balconies and from front porches to garden gazebos.

    Folklore. We all have memories of stories told to us around the campfire, under the stars, over a glass of rosé or a mug of tea, in the glimpses of gold between dawn and daylight. Stories about haunted houses, childhood homes. Stories about summers that barely seem real, lost in a great unknown while still lingering like a daydream you don’t want to let go of. Stories found in journals and photo albums, poetry collections and recipe books that were never meant to be found. Stories of wildflowers braided in strands of hair, rose quartz rings, screams in state of sleep, lipstick messages on mirrors, anonymous love letters, of secrets only the birds and the butterflies know about and that only the stars can make sense of. Stories that will never make it into the history books because they are the ballads and poems of life: they are told and retold, written and rewritten with glittery pens and passed around like school diaries and post stamp collections. They are spun and twisted in the best and worst possible ways and after the universe has had her fun with them, they are sent out into the world once again… to be made into new stories. New fairytales, new myths and legends and sagas.

    Folklore is how the story continues long after you have fallen asleep, long after the fire has gone out and the tea has gone cold. Folklore is the words that linger after the story has ended, like hair ribbons that get stuck between the branches of the tree you were never allowed to climb, but did anyway. Folklore is what finally remains after the beginnings and endings and in-betweens have had their time and the streetlights are the only ones left to ignite the heartbeats and heartstrings no one really paid attention to, what remains when we have let our imaginations run wild about where things started and how they ended. Folklore is what we think we know for certain, while hardly knowing anything at all.

    What would a house that has lived through two centuries tell you if the roof would collapse and the windows would shatter? Would nature’s rainstorms and hurricanes be a match for the whirlwinds and blizzards of the house itself? Would the nostalgic reminiscing of an old lady, once a beloved but notorious socialite back in her day, be anything like the whispers about her? Would the curious neighbors and intrigued townsfolk really know anything about that strange but classy young woman, whose secrets are more vile than anyone should want to know? Are the ghost stories about the woman who broke three hearts, including her own, anywhere near the truth? The young woman living in that luscious mansion, does her smile ever tell the story of her regrets, of how her entire life has seemed to turn into folklore?

    Folklore… something beyond words, beyond stories, beyond universes and galaxies and dreams and imagination. Folklore is what not even the most brilliant author could come up with. Folklore is the stories we all know, yet never really know. We know glimpses. Fragments. Splinters. Fireflies. We know blinks of an eye, lost words, front porch moments, forest encounters, silhouettes, lights behind windows, music notes, pages rustling. Whispers. Loose ends of heartstrings cut off, heartstrings entwining again, and above all… heartstrings finding other heartstrings, strings of life, of love, of darkness and daylight, of dazzling moments that could only be written by the stars and the goddesses of fate, if you will. Folklore is the universe’s gift to us, to show us what a curious, wondrous, mystical kaleidoscope of heartstrings we are – far beyond any words, any imagination or any truth. Folklore is the stories of our rawest, purest, cruelest and prettiest heartstrings, in any shade of any color. Folklore.