Category: The Trinkets

The room went Cold, or was getting Cold rather. It wasn’t sudden, the Cold was asserting its dominance over the room steadily. It crawled into the crooks and crannies of the room, leaving no crevice untouched. It allowed the room to keep no secrets from it. It filled the room until all Gail could feel was the Cold.  

Gail walked over to the window to close the curtains, but a voice requested against it. The voice belonged to the slender masculine figure that sat at the foot of her bed. His eyes were drained, not of color but of another feature that when lacked causes the appearance of lifelessness.  

Perhaps agency? 

“Avery.” Gail greeted, “What are you doing here?” She talked over her shoulder, closing the window all the while.  

“No Abigail,” Avery frowned, “Keep the curtains open.” 

Gail let them slide from her hands.  

“I haven’t seen the moon in a while.” Avery went on, “He’s been keeping me inside a lot lately.” 

“Who has?” Gail made her way to him. 

“The warden himself,” Avery seemed to be fixated on the way the moonlight hit the dust that waltzed casually across the damp air in her bedroom. Gail once learned that this random motion was caused by diffusion, which in turn was caused by an energy imbalance. Or at least that’s how she understood it. The figure examined the dust particles in a manner that suggested that to him, the movement was anything but random. He seemed to be waiting for it to reveal the secrets engraved into its fine grains. “He’s got a chip on his shoulder, Robert.” Avery continued, “I think I’ve made him very angry. Can I stay here tonight?” 

“What did you do?” Gail took her seat beside him at the foot of the bed.  

“What didn’t I do?” Avery glanced at her with a smirk before returning his focus to the dust.  

“Avery,” Gail demanded sternly, taking his face in her hands to force his eyes into hers, “What did you do?” 

“Abigail,” He took her face in his hands. With a grin spread ear to ear he asked, “What didn’t I do?” 

Shrugging out of his hands, she demanded, “Why are you here Avery?” 

“I had a bad dream,” he replied transparently, “I needed company. Can I stay with you tonight? Robert’s no fun these days.” 

“When was Robert ever fun?” Gail teased, avoiding the topic of Avery staying here. She was adamant about getting all her facts straight before allowing her guest to stay.  

Avery remained quiet, sensing Gail’s reluctance to answer her.  

“Tell me about your dream,” Gail diverted the conversation. 

Avery shook his head. “I want to take you there,” Avery stated, “May I?” 

Gail nodded, and followed the homeless boy to the window. Her palms clammed at the sight of the drop to the ground, but she crawled out nonetheless, one limb after the other and followed him into the darkness.

All rights reserved © 2021 Josephine Joyil

Sage wished she could go back to a different time, a simpler time perhaps, and live life from there. Maybe, with what she knows now, she would be able to keep life simple. Sage would not need to open her eyes to the ugly truths that exist before her. If that were the case, she would have never gained knowledge. In the absence of new knowledge, growth becomes stunted. The world discards that which could not grow and keep pace with its changes. A stubborn seed that will not sprout will fail to become a tree.  

Sage does not need to agree with this world to understand it. Understanding is simply a means of learning how to survive. On its own it is useless. Sage must utilise it to navigate this world without allowing it to consume her. She would like to believe that is one of the most important things that she learned from this world: to understand something that is disagreeable without hating it. 

Once, when Sage was a child, she lived without consciously understanding life.Sage might have been about ten. It was at that age that a conscious being awoke within her and decided that it desired to experience this world. Sage believes that is where childhood begins to die. Its decay is a slow and painful process, one that Sage believes is coming to an end soon. What comes after? Sage does not know. 

Until that delicate age, however, Sage was in a blissful state of dormancy. She  was like a seed held and protected within a fruit. All fruits fall from its tree and begin its slow and painful decay. The seed then finds itself in the midst of detritivores and dirt. It must be trampled on and pushed into the dirt to discover its true destiny. 

All rights reserved © 2020 Josephine Joyil

No irrational emotions. Completely collected and calm in public. Mature when interacting with all company. Only your select social circle is privileged to hear your clever notes of humor. Of course, there is not a place for one of the common folk, such as Sage, in such a circle. She really should not know that such a side of you exists. No, in front of Sage you will be calm, collected, and mature. 

Sage looks up to see you hold your head high above her. Your eyes remain fixated in a distant nothingness. Her attempt to discover what keeps your attention is unfruitful. So she stands expectantly beneath you, but you will not lower your eyes to her standards. Do you fear the sight of her will taint you in some way? The air you breath must be of a better quality than that spared for Sage. 

It is difficult to get your attention. She wants you to see all the good that she can offer, but you refuse to lend your attention when the occasion calls for it. She wonders if she will ever be anything more than one of the masses that drowns beneath each other as they drift past you. Tell her how she has come to earn the title of irrelevance. 

Perhaps the fault is hers. Has she not offered you the joys and pains of being acquainted with her? For too long, she has been fixated on the idea of you. She permitted nothing to interfere with this vision of what you could be. A word uttered too loudly might break this illusion. This fear of corruption repels her. You must remain this rational, emotionless being. You must remain a figure to be looked up to. That is her mistake, for which she will be sincerely sorry.

She will try harder next time. Of the next peer she will make a friend. Over the next fear, she will gain victory. The next goal will be pursued until the end. It is time to give up on you, however. It is too late to try with you. Time had grown tired of lending her its seeds. It gained no harvest and thus is displeased. 

All rights reserved © 2020 Josephine Joyil

Morning broke to the rage of a storm. Sage watched the raindrops roll down her window pane in what appeared to be barrels. She always positioned her head in a manner that allowed her to have a view of the window. It helps her fall asleep- the gentle swaying of the trees without- and sleep is perhaps the only  treasure she cherished. 

That morning, it was the rain water sputtering through the cracks between the window panes that awoke Sage. The droplets brought with it fragments of the various substances that sought refuge in the gaps between the panes and the damp mold stained window frame. Sage wiped the few droplets that landed on her skin onto her threadbare blanket. Her gaze returned to the raindrops that fell from the sky and landed on the glass before her. She focused her attention on a single drop of rain that landed on the pane and refrained from racing down the pane to its own destruction.

The image of the world through this raindrop was blurred and upside down. It seemed more comprehensible this way, the world, when it was categorized into an assortment of nonsensical colors and shapes. Through the raindrop, the world lost its sharpness and devolved into a passive haze. 

 A sigh grew weary in her lungs and let itself out. She pulled her blanket closer to her face and allowed its cool fabric to graze against her face. A sharp jab traveled across her shoulder, but it failed to persuade her to shift the weight of her body off of it. The rain had captivated her attention, it called to her to watch it dance across the window panes. The jab gradually matured to a persistent ache, but it could not divert her attention. Her focus shifted from the single raindrop to the divers cluster that settled on the pane. Each with a uniquely difficult path that laid before it.

All rights reserved © 2019 Josephine Joyil

Juniper laid on her bed, with her back pressed against the duvet and her eyes fixed on the ceiling fan. The smell of dust, the periodic creaking of loose floorboards and the antique ceiling fan that whined as it spun. This was home. There was, indeed, no place like it. It is the place that you return to when your presence is no longer required in the outside world. It is the place where you feel whole, surrounded by those whom you love. Everything here feels unforgettable. Yet, when Juniper laid on her bed that evening, something felt forgotten. It was like a word that you had at the tip of your tongue, or a dream you had at the break of dawn, it is forgotten. Its absence can be felt, and you can almost hear it laughing at the back of your head at your foolish forgetfulness. But that is the only remaining evidence that it ever existed.

Juniper got up, and examined the perimeter of what was once her childhood bedroom that she shared with her sister. On the wall was an oil painting that her sister had painted when she was about thirteen. Their mother was so proud of her. “This one has a true talent,” she remembers someone saying. She doesn’t remember who it was that said this.“This one has a future.”

Juniper and her sister seldom fought. Her sister being the civil lady that she was and Juniper knowing that she wouldn’t be the one winning. She was envious of her sister, but her love overshadowed her envy and allowed her to disguise her envy as pride for her sister. She would often comment on the many gifts that her sister possessed. She still speaks highly of her sister. It’s easier to hide the envy now that her sister is but a memory. Her body- which one radiated the dazzling rays of youth- is now one with the dirt and worms.

“Who has a future now” Juniper would often smirk, but the morbid thought saddened her more than it pleased her. She often feels that the wrong sister had been effaced from the face of the earth.

When her sister was alive, Juniper was a memory- a forgotten memory, even- one that was so faint that it almost didn’t exist. She knew that she could have been remembered and that knowledge gave her hope when she was a child. It was the kind of hope that fueled her will to live until her entire existence depended on it.

All rights reserved © 2015 Josephine Joyil

23 August , 1933
It started out as a flash of light from the heavens above. The beautiful rays that radiated from this flash expanded and kissed the horizons surrounding them. The people looked up and marveled at the malevolent beauty of their own destruction. Children glared at the ostentatious light flashing in the skies above them. It was almost as if they did not know that such ostentatious gifts always comes with a prize. I suppose ignorance was indeed bliss. Or maybe it was not ignorance at all that brought the people of Fernweh Street to come out and indulge in the enchanting light show. Perhaps it was the knowledge that death was,in fact one of the most genuine and inevitable aspects of life. Perhaps the people of Fernweh Street wanted to spend their last moments on earth cherishing the beauty of the savage way they were about to die. Perhaps they preferred to perish standing hand in hand with their kin. Either way, the people of Fernweh Street were standing on the streets there that night with their eyes fixed on the beams of radiation expanding out into the horizons. With a smile on their faces, they accepted death with open arms.

All rights reserved © 2016 Josephine Joyil

Towards the evening they finally arrived at the destination, but it was not at all what they had been expecting. In the end of the street stood the old villa. It looked so out of place surrounded by all the modern houses on Spencer Street.
Dr. Alice Argent and Detective James Cullen stepped out of the minivan and made their way to the front door of the house.
There was an elderly woman sitting on a rocking chair on the porch.
“Mrs.McArthur?” Argent asked.
“Yes.” snapped the elderly women. Her cold grey eyes that lacked of any signs of life sent a chill down Alice’s spine. McArthur sat with a straight back for she is a proper lady who disapproves of slouching. And why shouldn’t she? Your posture says a lot about you.
“I am Dr. Alice Argent. This is Detective James Cullen.” Argent introduced,“We were sent to investigate about the disappearance of Isaac Dawson.”
“Is it alright if we have a look around his room for clues?” Asked Detective Cullen.
“If you must” Mrs.MacArthur replied.
“The victim’s neck and back were swollen up with rashes. Did he have any know allergies?”
“Not that I know of.” replied Mrs.McArthur.
“According to his medical record, he was a perfectly healthy boy, mentally and physically. ” said James, “But it also stated that his last checkup was ten years ago. Why was this?”
“Like you said detective, he was a healthy boy.” Replied Mrs.McArthur.
“Are you saying that he didn’t get sick even once for the past ten years?”
“Yes.”
“Not even a common fever?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment.”
“If I didn’t know any better detective, I’d say you’re interrogating me.” Mrs. McArthur snapped, “I raised that boy as if he were my own son ever since his mother died. I made sure that he stayed healthy. If you are questioning my parental instincts, keep it to yourself.”
“With all due respect ma’am, your ‘parental instincts’ seem to not have been strong enough. In case you haven’t noticed the boy is dead.”
“That’s enough detective.” commanded Dr.Argent, “I think it is best if you search for clues in Isaac’s room, and I ask Mrs.McArthur about the boy’s medical records. I am the doctor after all.”
James gave a simple nod and left for Isaac’s room. While he was searching Isaac’s room for clues, Alice was trying to learn more about the death.
“Was he suicidal?” Asked Alice
“Not that I knew of.” Said Mrs.McArthur.
“What happened to his mom?”
“She died of an about ten years ago.”
“Did that affect his mental health?” Asked Alice.
“Like I said before, I don’t know.”
Alice regarded this for a moment. She had the gut feeling that Mrs.McArthur wasn’t telling her the completely truth. She decided to give it another try. “Did he have any phobias or mental disorders?” She asked
“He did have a very mild case of kleptomania.”
“How mild?”
“The child has an irrational habit of robbing drugstores.”
“Did you ever have him treated?”
“No. That’s the problem with this generation. You don’t need to be treated if you’re a thief. You need to be punished.”
“You wouldn’t call a kleptomaniac a thief though would you?” Asked Alice. “ They can’t help that they have this disorder.”
“It’s my job as his legal guardian to ensure that he breaks free of his nasty habits.” Snapped Mrs.McArthur.
“How did you punish him?”
“Now that’s none of your business.” She snapped. Alice spent the rest of the evening with James combing Isaac’s room for clues on how he died. They didn’t find anything until Alice tripped over a loose floorboard.
Curiosity got the best of her. She lifted the floorboard. Beneath it laid a worn out journal bound in leather. It was quite charming. The smell of old paper lingered in the air the moment the journal was opened. There weren’t any dates in the journal. Just names and a description. Alice knew that it was an invasion of privacy, but curiosity made her keep reading. Alice’s eyes widened with shock and fear as she flipped through the pages. Her heart was pounding through her chest. Ignorance was indeed bliss, she realized, for now the mystery of how Isaac and his mother died was solved;on the other hand, she now knew who he next victims were.
She turned around to see that James left.
“James,” she screamed, “We need to get out of here.”
She grabbed the journal and dashed out of the room.
“James!”
“James is gone, you are next.” She said. The hair on the back of Alice’s neck stood up. A chill raced down her spine. Alice turned around and got one last glance at those grey, lifeless, eyes before her own eyes lacked of any signs of life.
Mrs.MacArthur looked down at her journal and started to write.
The last two murders were quite boring. Just a simple gunshot. It’s whom you kill that really matters, isn’t it? A detective and a doctor in the same day! What an achievement!
Mrs. Dawson’s death was really an accident. I didn’t think that she was an asthmatic, and neither of us knew that she was allergic to pollen. How would we know? I never allowed her the privilege of exiting her room. Perhaps I shouldn’t have sent my poor young maid to work in the garden that spring morning. My proudest accomplishment was the boy, Isaac.
Mrs. McArthur paused and flipped back to the entry labeled Isaac Dawson.
Stealing used to be punishable by death back in the middle ages. Why shouldn’t kleptomania be punishable as well? The word would b a better place without those thieves. ‘Medical Condition’ what a pathetic excuse.
I noticed that the boy had a habit of robbing pet stores. Insects were his main object of interest. I was only trying to teach him a lesson at first. I learned somewhere that he most painful and bite was that from a bullet ant. I wanted to test exactly how painful. So I placed a dew under his pillow. I discovered that these ants don’t just bite, they also sent out a pheromone to signal other ants to bite as well.
Of course, I wasn’t too cruel. After a few hours of watching him scream and wither in pain, I held him down and presented him with an remedy. 100 ml of concentrated Hemlock. I told him h could end his suffering there and then. If he just drank the Hemlock he would die. Slowly, but eventually. Otherwise, he will be in pain for the next ten hours, and I will set more ants on him once the ten hours are over. He obviously took the vial. Unfortunately for him, I didn’t mention that the vial would send his body into a paralysis.While his mind remained wide awake. He was capable of feeling the pain, but unable to move.
I watched, intruded by his rapid breathing. He tried, but failed, to talk. Life was slowly slipping out of his electric blue eyes. He tried to give me a dirty look. Soon, he just closed his eyes, then slipped into a coma, then death.

All rights reserved © 2013 Josephine Joyil