Everyday, after school, I would pass by this tree. It was a small tree, to be sure. I never really gave it any attention since it seemed like just any other tree… but then, it rained.

I didn’t have an umbrella that day. Cursing that of all the days to lose my umbrella, it had to be that day. Noticing the dry spot under that tree I always passed by, I took shelter.

Spending hours under it protection, i noticed how its branches were beautifully twisted, saw the many cuts naughty hands had imposed on it and felt the warmth it emanated.

Since then, I found myself often standing under that tree, enjoying its cool shade, feeling it a warm sanctuary.

And that everyday tree became a “home” of sorts.

A little girl was given a pet hamster for her birthday. She loved the hamster very much and gave it everything it needed. Then, she started giving it things to make its cage cuter. She gave it a small house to live in and several toys. Every now and then, she’d give it a new toy and everyday, she’d clean and rearrange its cage.

The hamster seemed to appreciate his owner’s care and in turn, was affectionate to her. But it soon got tired of the constant cleaning and became confused with all of the toys it received. It came to a point when the hamster bit the little girl when it tried to clean and rearrange the cage again.

The girl became angry at first and later, sad, because the pet which had shown her so much affection suddenly hurt her. She thought it best to just leave it alone for the time being and contented herself with watching over her little pet hamster.

Once upon a time, a boy was walking in the forest behind his house when he got lost and stumbled upon a snowglobe. The snowglobe was stuck in between the branches of a young oak tree. It seemed that the tree grew around it, as if loathe to give it up to anyone.

The boy peered into the snowglobe and saw a tiny house beside a small lake. There was a girl inside that small world. She hid inside the house and stared at the boy from behind the curtains. The boy was amazed at what he saw and tried to take the snowglobe home but the tree wouldn’t give it up without being cut down and the snowglobe looked so fragile that he was scared of breaking it.

Since then, everyday, the boy went to that place to look at the snowglobe. every now and then, he’d find the girl staring at her own reflection on the lake’s surface. However, the girl would immediately look up and smile at the boy.

No sound could pass through the walls of the snowglobe so they communicated using sign language. The boy found out that the girl didn’t always live in that world, she used to be a normal girl, living in the outside world. They both secretly wondered if the girl could still live outside if ever the snowglobe was broken. Neither dared to ask though because both knew that the other had no answer.

They talked a lot and became close but soon, the boy found the girl sitting by the lake more and more often. She noticed that he was wondering about that and told him that before he came, she used to only be able to talk to her reflection.

The boy came by the snowglobe everyday but the girl soon stopped going up to the wall to talk to him. After a while, she began to hide inside her house whenever he came by. Sometimes, he would sneak up on her however, and find her sitting by the lake, talking to her reflection again.

With a sigh, the boy resolved to stop coming by the snowglobe though he couldn’t keep himself from checking up on her from time to time, though she still busied herself with her own reflection.

For a while the snowglobe was forgotten. When the boy came by it again, he saw that a fire was coming from the girl’s house and was spreading throughout the inside world. The girl was still by the lakeside, still smiling at herself.The boy knew that something had to be done but he didn’t know what.

Would he break the snowglobe to save her from the fire though he wasn’t sure if she could live outside? Or would he wait for her to notice the flames and put them out herself?

He couldn’t decide… and she continued to gaze at herself on the water’s surface.

A leaf on a branch was looking at the lake below. It saw its reflection and after some time, it fell. The leaf liked that it was near the image of itself but soon, it was swallowed by the depths of the lake.

The End.

A child and her mother went to the park one day. As they passed by a small tree, the child grabbed a low branch and broke it.

“Why did you do that?” the mother asked.
“I wanted it. It looks nice, doesn’t it, mama?” the child answered.
“Yes, but didn’t you think that the tree would get hurt?”
“But trees don’t get hurt,”
“Why do you say so?”
“Because they don’t make a sound.”
Her mother sighed and said,”don’t you know that they hurt more than anything else? It’s because they don’t have a voice to express how much they are hurt. They can’t cry or shout “that hurts!” That’s why people continue to hurt them. If you were a tree, what would you say to the person who broke your arm? How could you tell them not to do it when you can’t say anything?”

The child cried and asked if she could give back the branch.
“No,” her mother said, “all you can do now is apologize and never do it again.”

She apologized to the tree and continued on through the park with her mother.

Kitty was sitting in class, daydreaming by the window when a glowing red butterfly came in and rested on her book. She was admiring the butterfly because it was pretty. It had delicate, translucent wings.

When class finished and her classmates started to stand up, the butterfly seemed to prepare for flight. Kitty quickly closed the book on it to keep it from flying away but it was so delicate and it died.

She showed the pressed butterfly to her classmates but each time she opened the book, a small part of the butterfly’s wings come off. If she kept the book closed, what would be the point in keeping the butterfly?

It would stay with Kitty but it was dead. Her classmates could admire everything about it but its life. It was pretty to look at, but still, dead.

If she hadn’t acted so impulsively, the butterfly would still be alive and it would be prettier than what it was now.

But things can’t be undone. Slowly, the butterfly got absorbed into the pages of her book and is now nothing but a reddish-gray stain.

There was this talking notebook in this girl’s bedroom. It didn’t always talk, it started making sounds about half a year from when it was bought, when the  girl started really writing on it.

The notebook, at first, only made cute, quiet sounds. Then it started saying whole words and then sentences. as the girl wrote longer and longer stories.

One time, the girl accidentally forgot the notebook in the library and that evening, it told her about how the other books made fun of it because it was a mere notebook. She was astonished that other books talked but she was also angry that they made fun of HER notebook. The next day, she went to the library, took out the offending books out of their shelves and set them on the floor.

Finally, the pages of the notebook started to run out and it’s voice quieted. It made no more sound. The girl still wanted to write on it but she also wanted the notebook to comment on her writing. To correct her and laugh at her. She stopped writing because she terribly missed the notebook.

It was still there but it wasn’t there anymore.

After a long silence,
Another opening act.

Crimson curtains fall on the pallid stone stage.
The act does not indulge intruders.
Inane beings snicker at the other side.
Blanca stirs in her position,
Ever ready to play the role appointed at birth.

Swiftly awoken from her slumber,
By a dreadful ache in her chest,
The bittersweet dream of what can never be,
Is lost completely in shock.
The music starts.

Threads stitched through her joints,
A mere marionette,
Forced to walk briskly around the stage.
Not even a moan can escape,
The ruby lips sewn shut.

The lights shine off the bloodied floor.
It matters not,
As long as her black dress,
Continues to hide the stains.
The deathly pale face looks up.

The curtains rise almost too quickly.
This is a musical comedy!
A muse sings all her parts,
And takes all praise,
For Blanca is but a doll.

The next act relieves her for now,
For a while, she is thrown back into darkness,
Free to have bittersweet dreams that can never be,
Of the hand that offered her freedom,
Until the next time the stage calls for her,

Until the very instance that death claims her,
Or until the moment she can finally be free.