General

The diary was stuffed under her mattress. I paused, looking at it. She was gone but here was a window into her private thoughts. Did I want to know? Would it be a violence to her memory to read it? Or did it matter now she was lost to me? Did the dead care for their privacy? I fingered the cover, tracing the pattern of the Celtic designs on the rough papery cover. Then I held it to my face and inhaled, hoping it would smell of her. Then, as the tears flowed from my unblinking eyes, I kissed the cover and put it to one side. Whatever she wanted me to know in life she told me herself. She never meant this to be read and so I must destroy it or bury it with her. Respecting her memory means respecting her wishes.

By chun, November 21, 2013.
General

I saw a diary of someone, the pages were all covered with a thick layer of dust with a neat organised handwriting. It read.. ((Today was the day I lost my last life..)) I didn't understand what it meant until I heard that noise...

By Aisha Khanjari, November 15, 2013.