I rubbed my index finger across the neck of the key, mocking Cameron with each stroke. Cameron looked at the raging river behind me and took a panicky step forward. “Hey! Backup or I’ll throw it!” I screamed, throwing my arm above my head with the key gripped tightly in my fist. “Melissa fucking please!” Cameron cried, dropping his shoulders with defeat. Ahh Cameron. That naive, stupid fucking idiot. He thought I had the key to our dad’s chest, which he had left to us when he died, in my hand. I didn’t. This key was plastic and it didn’t open anything, except the door to Cameron’s panic attack. I smirked and hurled the key into the angry water. Cameron dropped to his knees and started to cry.

As I held the key in my hand, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. It was as if, suddenly, a door opened in my mind, and memories began to flow without stopping. I could see vividly those days when the sun shone with a unique intensity over my Caribbean island, and the sound of children’s laughter echoed through the dusty streets of my neighborhood. It was as if time had stopped just to let us live in that moment of pure freedom and joy. I remember how my friends and I would spend hours playing dominoes under the shade of an old tree, our hands slamming down the tiles with the confidence only childhood can bring. Sometimes, when it rained, we’d run through the water, not caring about the mud on our feet or our drenched clothes. We love the mud; it was as if the world transformed into an amusement park made just for us. My cousins and I would laugh and shout, feeling that, in those moments, we owned eternity. As I look at the key, I know it holds those memories, encapsulated in time as if they were a treasured keepsake. This key no longer opens a physical door, but it opens something even more valuable: a portal to my childhood, to innocence, to my island, and to my homeland, where the smell of the sea and the echo of our voices are still present, though now only in my mind and in my heart forever.

A runner losing faith rushes to the end of his so called happyness feeling meaningless, carrying heavy stones on his back, when his body wants to lay down powerless.

Running , running , trough this neverending running , the spirit , the divine touch gets lost in the wellknown woods of his deep mind and soul when he makes a final choice.

He leaves his “home” in this forgotten place, he buries the key in the turmoils. He puts all of his memories back to sleep. He doesn’t want to live imprisoned , in chains of his forever faithfulness faith, in his beloved cage. This past is left flying in the space….

He will never know where to find the key to the past, if there is anything left, to wake up the spirit that was put to rest…

His heart dug beneath the earth. Weighed by shackles of bare bones and undertones Every step hurried It’s beautiful unkept depth Until his path had crossed another’s

Her heart dug beneath the earth Weighed by shackles of scarlet cries and unmarked eyes Every step hurried It’s beautiful unkept depth Until her path had crossed another’s Their eyes glared at the glimmer key named

“Hope”

To which, the other was given “Keep walking.” They were told By a voice so profound and bold They held their key to one another’s A match with a name unheard before Such a name read as

“Freedom”

As they raced to place A key To the shackles of another Each inhaling a newness Within each breathe they’ve so longed to hear A second caught their gaze A deeply formed breath in synchrony This key, they thought, is so different How could it hold my heart’s time?

A moment

A name

Such a key… Like mine

To some, it was a key. To others, it was junk. To people who could see its power, it was a treasure. To her, it was the holder of her friend’s soul. And she vowed to never let anyone destroy it. Which meant hiding their ancestry from her only daughter. Did their bloodline matter more, or did her friend? They were the last of their kind. Withholding the information all the way to her death would mean the Tiro’s would be lost forever. Was it worth it? Two paths, both irresistible and tempting. Both with rewards and consequences. In the end, she decided that her friend was more important than their blood.

This was a reality and still is

The Nakba of 1948 The Nakba, or "Catastrophe," of 1948 marks one of the most harrowing and devastating events in modern history. During this period, hundreds of thousands of Palestinian Arabs were forcefully expelled from their homes as violence erupted with the establishment of the state of Israel. Entire villages were razed, families were torn apart, and countless lives were lost. The survivors faced unimaginable hardships, fleeing with little more than the clothes on their backs, often under the threat of violence or death. Refugees were subjected to squalid and overcrowded camps, where they struggled with hunger, disease, and despair. The trauma and suffering of the Nakba continue to resonate through generations, a dark and painful chapter etched into the collective memory of the Palestinian people.

Somewhere out there in the abyss Is a key that opens a floodgate A floodgate or perchance a wall? Tis a wall if shut A floodgate if unsealed Only then shall my emotions be revealed

This key can be found in a multitude of places In the nostalgia of objects and artifacts of my past and present Things I am attached to by an invisible key ring And in every person I hold dear if one looks far enough inside And even inside myself if I release my pride

And, if seldom the lock is opened The metaphorical metal will start to rust The key won’t fit any longer And aye, my true self will be lost

She keeps the doors unlocked.

Ada works as a baker. Her shop is on the corner, making the whole block smell good. The cozy booths and turquoise chairs give the shop a contemporary feel. Her croissants and eclairs are regarded as the best in the country. She lives above her bakery with a cat and a fish tank. She has no children of her own, so she often visits her sister’s house, as she has a husband and two sons, both in elementary school. Whenever she visits, she brings homemade treats for free, but when they visit her shop, she charges them extra.

At night, she closes the doors and curtains, but she keeps an ear out for anyone who knocks twice only. She opens the door and sells her monkey bread, which only a few people know about.

Her bakery has been closed for a while now. Closed, yet the doors remain open. She keeps the doors unlocked.

I know all this. I know about the monkey bread, the recipes for her croissants, the cat that I’ve only seen a couple times that I now take care of full time. Ada is gone. Her doors remain open now.

I knocked twice. I got no response. She wasn’t even at home. She was in a neighboring town, trying to jumpstart a friend’s car, when she got hit by a drunk driver. Even at the end, she was helping people.

I am her nephew. I walk past her shop every day. It has a For Sale sign in the window. It’s no longer the special shop in the neighborhood. It no longer holds my aunt, or her cat, or her croissants, or her kindness. It’s no longer the cozy bakery, where the owner is caring and welcoming and her door is always open. Although, her door is always open now. I have the key now. It lies on my bedside table, where it will remain, as I do not want to touch it and think of her any more than I already do.

She keeps the doors unlocked.

We were alone.

“You- you’re not Sam!” My eyes widened with fear as he tossed my phone onto my bed.

“No shit. Now sit down and shut up.” He eyed me. A mask covered his mouth and he wore all black, shaggy like his hair.

He walked over and unzipped his bag. He pulled out a knife and shoved me onto the bed with one forceful push.

”I remember you- wait! aren’t you Sam’s old middle school friend? D… something?” I tried to rack my brain to remember. I had seen him at school only once before in class and Sam had mentioned his name in passing.

He didn’t reply, but instead chuckled. It wasn't a no.

He began to rummage through my drawers pulling out all of them. The knife still in hand. He turned his attention to the closet.

“Sam gave you a key on the third date y’all went on and told you to keep it. Where is it?” He pulled out clothing and other junk from the drawers.

“How did you-?”

“I watched as Sam gave you the key that night and then I followed you home after he left you at the restaurant.”

This key means a lot to Sam and he wouldn’t just hand it over to someone he didn't care for. He stepped closer to me as my heart beat faster.

I curled up on the bed as I felt his hot breath linger in my face. What a putrid smell. His eyes looked me up and down until he caught sight of the chain around my neck that was barely showing from my shirt.

I immediately clutched it and he put the knife up under the chain. I could feel the cold smooth blade touching my skin.

“Stop!” I shouted.

“I know that you have the key!” He countered. He traced the blade along the chain and pulled out the key.

It glimmered in the evening light. He grinned with a wide smile, still admiring the key.

Now was my chance. I leaned forward and put my hand on his chest. The knife balanced between my life and death. I leaned forward, my lips a few millimeters away from his.

“I didn't take you for a cheater,” he purred.

“And I didn't take you for a thief, but here we are.”

He seemed dazzled by me and for a moment his hand loosened. He realized my intentions and tightened his grip on the knife.

In one swift motion he cut the chain necklace and the key fell into his palm.

”Didn’t Sam tell you?” The fake Sam started to laugh as he twirled the key between his fingers.

“Tell me what?”

“Sam has terminal cancer and that key is his life.”

It made sense. No wonder Sam showered me with gifts every time we went out on dates and told me he loved me every chance he got. Tears began to flow from my eyes. I wasn't afraid of the knife. I wasn't afraid of this man, but I was afraid. Afraid of losing Sam.  “Why didn't he tell me?”

”He tried to.” He sheathed the blade. Inside of his pocket he withdrew a letter that Sam wrote.

“I guess he just didn't… care enough to tell you.” He lifted the key and the letter to my line of sight and pocketed them.

“Where did you-?”

He put his finger to my lips to shut me up.

“Your mailbox, obviously. I read it before I walked in. Troublesome, isn't it? Not knowing when he could die and yet he didn't have the heart to tell you the truth,” he continued.

“Now… if I were your boyfriend. I would have told you on the second date. I’d get you invested first and let you down slowly. Romantic, right?” he circled around me.

“Romantic!” I goffed. “Please, even Sam’s name is romantic.”

He unsheathed the knife and in one fell swoop put it under my chin and whispered in my left ear, “Mmm… but he can’t beat mine. In case you were wondering it’s Damien.”

The key swings loosely from his neck. He wanders further down the hall. Red splatters dot the floor. The faint sound of children echoes in the dark empty space. Their voices haunting him, he remembers the horrors they displayed.

The chicken nuggets thrown across the room, and ketchup packets thrown on the floor. He uses the key to unlock the janitor closet. I will have my revenge. He thinks to himself as he grabs the mop aggressively.