Pandora's Box of Chocolates
by Desmond Kamas
It’s late in the afternoon.
A street with decorative pear trees, soft green nibs on nimble branches.
Winter is ending.
A young woman stops in front of a small shop, her dark hair hit by the gentle light filtering through the leaves.
With a jangle of bells, she opens the door.
She steps inside.
“Hello,” says the cashier.
She does not pay attention.
Her eyes scrutinize the various confections about the shelves.
At one moment, she picks up a box and shakes it carefully.
“Excuse me, but-”
Disappointed, she sets it back in its place.
The bells ring as the door closes.
“Whadda you want?” he slurs.
Knock.
“We’re closed. See that sign? It says we close at six. It’s already six thirty.”
She stares through the pane emotionlessly.
Knock.
Her fist creates tiny spider webs, trapped within the glass.
She has blue nail polish.
Knock.
“Jesus, lady, don’t break the place.”
There is fear in his eyes.
Knock.
The glass shatters.
Soft footsteps, in time to an silent song.
Knock.
Soft footsteps, pattering into the night.
How does it feel
to live a life eternal
knowing you are the cause of pain?
How must it feel
to suffer without end
alone amid an empty ocean?
An alarm.
A groan.
The creak of the springs.
It is morning.
A monotonous ritual repeated like clockwork.
Shower;
Dress;
Eat;
Leave.
In front of the door, the gears catch.
Do not eat.
With love, an admirer
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
He picks up the box.
It sits in the kitchen.
Waiting.
Work is occupied mostly by thoughts;
Of the box.
Of the note.
Of the admirer.
He leaves early.
It is the words that give him pause.
Why gift a box of chocolates if not to eat?
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
The box is open.
There are twelve perfect spheres.
Each tantalizingly easy to slip into your mouth.
Do not eat, it had said.
When the sun rises, they will be gone.
He will never wake up.
Soft footsteps, uneven in their measure.
A door, opened.
A box, closed.
Soft footsteps, slipping back to the darkness.
A life forever is not a life.
It is only suffering, again and again.
Yet we still hope for tomorrow.
False hope is worse than any other torment.
A box, opened long ago.
Why?
by Desmond Kamas
It’s late in the afternoon.
A street with decorative pear trees, soft green nibs on nimble branches.
Winter is ending.
A young woman stops in front of a small shop, her dark hair hit by the gentle light filtering through the leaves.
With a jangle of bells, she opens the door.
She steps inside.
“Hello,” says the cashier.
She does not pay attention.
Her eyes scrutinize the various confections about the shelves.
At one moment, she picks up a box and shakes it carefully.
“Excuse me, but-”
Disappointed, she sets it back in its place.
The bells ring as the door closes.
“Whadda you want?” he slurs.
Knock.
“We’re closed. See that sign? It says we close at six. It’s already six thirty.”
She stares through the pane emotionlessly.
Knock.
Her fist creates tiny spider webs, trapped within the glass.
She has blue nail polish.
Knock.
“Jesus, lady, don’t break the place.”
There is fear in his eyes.
Knock.
The glass shatters.
Soft footsteps, in time to an silent song.
Knock.
Soft footsteps, pattering into the night.
How does it feel
to live a life eternal
knowing you are the cause of pain?
How must it feel
to suffer without end
alone amid an empty ocean?
An alarm.
A groan.
The creak of the springs.
It is morning.
A monotonous ritual repeated like clockwork.
Shower;
Dress;
Eat;
Leave.
In front of the door, the gears catch.
Do not eat.
With love, an admirer
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
He picks up the box.
It sits in the kitchen.
Waiting.
Work is occupied mostly by thoughts;
Of the box.
Of the note.
Of the admirer.
He leaves early.
It is the words that give him pause.
Why gift a box of chocolates if not to eat?
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
The box is open.
There are twelve perfect spheres.
Each tantalizingly easy to slip into your mouth.
Do not eat, it had said.
When the sun rises, they will be gone.
He will never wake up.
Soft footsteps, uneven in their measure.
A door, opened.
A box, closed.
Soft footsteps, slipping back to the darkness.
A life forever is not a life.
It is only suffering, again and again.
Yet we still hope for tomorrow.
False hope is worse than any other torment.
A box, opened long ago.
Why?