The Skeleton in the Closet

Grade 11 Literary Arts - Chapbooks

Content warning: The following contains elements of gore

       Despite their efforts, the two distressed adults were unsuccessful. The closet, of course, was checked numerous times but never inspected quite closely enough. Had they paid just a bit more attention to its dimly-lit contents, they would have undoubtedly found their son, his face purple and his body all wrapped up in the tail of the monster—which, by their words, never existed to begin with.

      ound and round his assistant goes as she spins on the knife thrower’s wheel. Her dirty blonde hair is tied in knots by gravity’s wandering fingers. That little red dress of hers swishes this way and that, providing an intriguing subplot to the main attraction—much to the delight of several audience members—much to the disgust of others.

       The knife thrower’s assistant has a divine sort of beauty, as any good assistant should. Many side-eye the charismatic gentleman, complexions turning a sickly shade of green; it was difficult not to envy his otherworldly fortune, to have found a girl like her.

       Despite her acrobatic role in the performance, she remains pale, as though all blood had been drained from her body. Her glossy red lips are done up in a bow and her heavy white makeup, despite its snaking cracks, can’t help but remind one of a spectre’s pallor.

I have the insanely talented Juniper Fenwick to thank for the illustrations. They are everything I could have imagined and they add so much to the pieces as well as to the overall feel of the chapbook. Your concepts are so creative and I know this was way different than your usual style, so thank you again for sticking it out with me to make this chapbook something extra special.

I would also like to thank Ms Dobson for all the encouragement and support you've provided me throughout this process. Without your flexibility and understanding, this chapbook definitely wouldn't be at the stage it is now, and without you carrying us through the project, I doubt it would have been as fun either.

An excerpt from "The Queen's Contest"

he kingdom was full of tall ugly buildings, all squished together under the false pretense of intimacy. Smoke billowed out of their chimneys, creating a permanent sense of darkness and gloom. Even if the sun were to someday return, its glow would be pushed back and dismissed by the smog, as if it was saying: What are you doing back? You let the rain bombard us for months and now you return as if nothing had happened?! HA! You should know traitors aren’t welcome here.&nbsp;

displeasure. Lined up like street lamps along the back alleys were the lower class. The homeless, the drunkards, the orphans, and the otherwise downtrodden. Walking corpses that were treated with the utmost contempt. They saw in the eyes of the benevolent nobles an unmatched disgust, a secret wish for them to simply disappear, instead of defiling the streets of their kingdom. You could ask what the monarch planned to do about all of this, or whether she cared at all.&nbsp;

       Unfortunately, this was a secret. The Queen’s opinions of the lower class were hers and hers alone, locked up tight behind her wine-coloured lips. She would only speak a controversial opinion if she was assured confidentiality. Otherwise, she would rather have no opinions at all.&nbsp;

       The rainy season was especially harsh this year. The residents of the kingdom were perpetually damp, suffering from pneumonia and pruning extremities. To awake to fog in the morning and to fall asleep to the sound of thunderstorms and cries of frustration as yet another roof gave way to leakage—was a loathsome existence indeed.&nbsp;&nbsp;

       In addition to the rain and depression, there was only one other thing that could so easily bring

     here is a small wooden box in which the puppet master hides, behind a miniature stage where three chipped marionettes enact their charade. All that is left to be seen of him are ten spindly fingers which dance above their strings; the rest is tucked away.

     he old bulb flickers in the dark hallway, revealing then hiding shadows along the walls, floors, and window sills. Her head sways from side to side in time to an unheard melody.

       On goes their silent production—the one with seemingly no beginning nor end. When the marionettes sway, they do so with jarring movements, squealing loudly from their rusted joints. These children’s nightmares are incomparable to their shining days, which long since gave way to dark skies and thunderstorms.

       With her movements, she commands the symphony of crickets, whose lullaby fills the dank air of the musty house. Her hands twist and untwist low in front of her, obeying the rhythm of the night. Her eyes are wide though her pupils are small, staring at nothing and everything—becoming smaller still when the light flickers silver.

       The only one ignorant to this fact is the puppet master himself, his vision obscured by the stage. Driven solely by applause—one he believed was meant for him—he has performed without repose. Yet there isn’t a single soul who thought to stop and break him the news: that his crowd has long since deserted him.

        Comparatively, the golden moon shines in through shattered glass, illuminating a small ring within the room down the hall. The door is hanging open, screeching ever so softly in the cool breeze of the summer night.

       From within the chamber, cast in the spotlight of moonshine is a woman whose hair is only a variant form of frayed rope. Darkness rims her

       There was no chance to react when her throat suddenly constricted. Only when she saw her reflection did she understand. The severed hand had reappeared, thin bony digits wrapped around her throat. This time it was accompanied by a woman. She hung in the air right there next to her, long black hair traveling down a body whose feet didn't touch the floor.&nbsp;

       The woman’s eyes were bloodshot, unfocused, staring up at the ceiling. And it was only when she smiled that her mouth’s gruesome nature was revealed; a gaping pit, lengthened deep criss-crossing scars on either side.

eeter teeter screech went the old rusted swing, serenely minding its own business in the soft breeze of twilight. Front and back, and side to side it teetered; an off-putting dance if ever there was one to be seen. Decrepit in nature, it was a swing fit only for the dead; on which would play skeletal children, whose chests were still as a tomb, whose laughter sounded more like screams.

       The harder the girl tried to scream, or to escape, the tighter the hand’s grip became. Her eyes rolled back in her skull as her vision darkened; the woman hissed in her ear as it did.

       "Bloody Mary,” she sang, her macabre lullaby soothing the girl into a blood-red stupor. A stupor which quickly gave way to oblivion.

       On nights when the full moon came out to greet them, the children would pause in their games to reach out to this holy light with any of the shattered limbs they still possessed. They did so because they knew that were they just to touch the moon’s cratered surface, that they would finally be granted passage after so long, to this ‘world beyond Earth’ promised to them so long ago.

When we were but young lovers, it took only a single glance from you to thrill every fiber of my being.

You stole my heart; cradling it in your hands&nbsp; as preciously as a skeleton would its skull. It was not so long after that you dutifully reached your hand&nbsp; out to me&nbsp; and stole my breath from my lungs.

Whose glass slippers shattered as our many many flaws were laid bare, most revealed&nbsp; prior to your untimely demise, some only showing themselves in its wake.

Please inform me lover,&nbsp; what remains of our lover’s song, those steps and lyrics that ran in our heads winters and summers and springs and fall.

It was ensuing your departure that there appeared a sorrowful pit&nbsp; over my heart&nbsp; once so sick with romance.

This poem is for you, my dearly departed bride. Whose veil now muddied, whose wedding dress stretched two sizes too big as it lost its competition&nbsp; with your ever-sinking flesh.

You have no more use for dancing now that you lie so still in our bed; appearing a somber type of beautiful your hair splayed out on the swan feather pillows, while clutched so tightly within your grip, this poem recounting your death.

gaunt features and exhaustion tugs at her eyelids. With a hand only bending at the wrist, she quietly beckons her daughter. Her voice, nothing more than an unpleasant rasp.

       The girl, whose head has not quit swaying and whose hands have yet to quit twisting, takes a single step towards the room. Her movement results in the unpleasant popping of her knee, having bent it despite the medical tape wrapped numerous times around each leg. She takes another and another, and her steps add the off-beat percussion so missing from the night's concert tune.

      er glassy eyes bulge; as big as snow globes against her death-like frame, watching the crowd without blinking. Her sole prop is a pole: vandalized and crooked, standing only due to its sturdy steel base.&nbsp;

       With every hesitant, bone-shaking step, the mother's black and silver smile grows wider.

       "Come closer, my darling," she calls, "Closer and closer and closer."

       When the worn-out gramophone begins to play, her face comes alive in time to the crackling melody and her mouth stretches into a grin. Her teeth are mush among her blackened gums but still the contortionist smiles. She smiles as she twists her spine thrice over, treating the audience to a series of clicks and clacks as her bones protest.

       The girl's head-swaying grows more violent, and more violent still, until she swings it into the wall with a dull thud. Even so... Even as the stars from the night sky appear to descend and surround her, the young girl with the bandaged knees does not stop walking. Nor do her hands stop twisting. And all the while, the crickets never cease to sing.

       She wraps herself around the pole; and when she becomes motionless, performing no more, the hesitant crowd applauds. Though they are quick to depart, seeking out some corner of the circus where those hungry eyes of hers won’t follow.

    n this world of ours, how are we to discriminate between saints and villains? In an unending list of traits and circumstances, what can tip the ever-so sensitive balance and dip our souls into ink?&nbsp;

does her roots—that their colours should have any meaning at all. Because as it were, colours come with connotations and connotations come with an unspoken understanding between the upstanding members of society—but that's beside the point because—as we've already established—my soul, should it exist at all, is a passionate shade of secret rendezvous red, and that's just the way it is.

       Should we ever discover this technique, by then it is a simple matter of sorting out the white souls from the black, and divining the state of every shade of gray we come across using a faultless method of characterization like a paint swatch.&nbsp;

Who's to decide the shade of their soul anyway? Personally, if I were to exercise the power of God, mine would be a passionate shade of secret rendez- vous red. Make of that what you will, because even as those gears in your brain turn over and over themselves, it makes just as much sense as stating my soul is the colour of ink.

       Of course, all of this is simply conjecture utilizing the assumption that souls can be dyed in the first place; as easily as a middle-aged woman

THE MONSTER IN THE CLOSET

said a deep voice, run ragged by cigarettes. Schizophrenia, said another. Crazy, stupid, rebellious, immature, BECAUSE MONSTERS DON'T EXIST! Save for the one in his closet—the one begging to be let out.

      pen the door. Open the door,” demanded the gravelly voice from inside the closet. “Open the door. OPEN IT!”

        For the first time, it paused in its cries. The silence which enveloped the room was suffocating.&nbsp;

       Dinosaur stickers decorated the light blue walls, there were glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Piles of toys were strewn disorderly about the floor, providing truly the most magnificent tripping hazard. To the right of the doorway, in the far corner, sat a chair dedicated to dirty laundry, despite the welcoming hamper looking somewhat distraught just to its side. The master of this room—a six-year-old boy named Terrence—was nowhere to be found, though there was a conspicuous quivering lump beneath the duvet.&nbsp;

       "I need you to help me," groaned the monster. The lump stopped quivering, its attention caught. Sensing this, the monster continued, "There is a box too heavy for me to move; my tail is stuck beneath it. I cannot leave until my tail is free."

       "Stuck?" asked the lump. The room trembled with the monster's violent affirmation. The lump threw off its lumpiness, revealing it to have been Terrence all along. "Will you leave if your tail is free?" Once again, the room shook. "Alright then."

       He heard the monster's call night after night yet despite repeatedly explaining the grievance, his parents still couldn't understand the source of the dark bags beneath his eyes, the reasoning behind his outlandish tales. They had sought help. Insomnia,

       "Terrence? Terrence!" A harmony of terror-stricken voices filled the house as it was turned upside down. Various pieces of furniture flew through the air as anywhere that could be a hiding place was stripped of its obscurity. The telephone sang out its unending dial tone, and the front door

“So much the worse for those who fear wine, for it is because they have some bad thoughts which they are afraid the liquor will extract from their hearts.” - The Count of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas

“Copyright © CHS Chapbooks 2021. All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means without permission from CHS Chapbooks.”

Content warning: The following contains elements of horror

After deciding his course, the knife thrower draws back his hand and the crowd quiets. They hold their breath as he releases and the knife lands with a thwump in the spinning target. There is a single moment of silence between this sound and the polite applause of the audience. Even as he steps up to take his bows, some cannot seem to tear their eyes away.

       The magic fades and reality sets in, beckoned by the sound of screams. Through trembling fingers covering their eyes, the naive members of the audience begin to notice all the little things they had previously chosen to ignore—if only to uphold the propriety of it all. The knife thrower’s moth-eaten coat, for example, or the empty coin tray set out before him. Most of all, his assistant, suspended limply by the leather straps of the wheel, numerous blades piercing her body. They notice how the dried blood staining her dress isn’t fake after all, that the trick was something else entirely.

     he passed the bathroom on her way to bed, startling when she saw something out of the corner of her eye. Though momentarily unnerved, she laughed it off; tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, naming it the culprit of her surprise.

       However, when she glanced at the bathroom, her entire body stiffened. Its door was nearly closed, but through the gap she could make out the unmistakable outline of a hand in the reflection.

       Knowing she wouldn't be able to sleep until she dismissed it, she took a quivering breath and silently pushed the door open the rest of the way.

When she did, her own silhouette was the only thing to appear and she sighed with relief. Keeping her gaze on the mirror, she reached behind her for the light switch, sliding her hand up and down the wall. Unable to locate it, she finally gave in and turned to look. Her blood ran cold when she real- ized that the switch really wasn't there.

around mine is infinitely better than this icy division.

       s I await your return, I long for your hands around mine. It has been so very long since I’ve felt your touch, yet it seems even longer still until I will feel it again. Your laugh and your kiss are only vague imprints in my memory as I lay alone, forsaken amongst unwrinkled sheets.&nbsp;

       Your distant nature has inflicted on me a silent suffering from which I become unraveled—disordered odds and ends pawned away by my next of kin. And yet you remain as you always have, no more than a simple shadow, opaque yet only an illusion cast by the sun’s cruel rays.

And with every day we are apart, it seems as though the good times we spent together weren’t so good after all, that maybe I was only a wander- lust child entranced with the journey your love presented. Perhaps, through another lense, my younger innocence would become attuned to all the silences and bitter looks we shared. Perhaps I would be then thankful for the time we’ve spent apart because it has stilled the ripples within my liquid memories.

       However, I am not so alone. Accompanying me in your stead is the realization that I long only for your touch because the scalding heat of your hands

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