golden heartstring - stories inspired by 'folklore'

chapter one: the house of whirlwinds and rainstorms

here lies the house you dreamt up as you were reading folklore

just like the girls growing up here, collecting daisies and trying to catch the sunlight

as they competed for the dirtiest dress and the best kind of princesses

that much preferred history pages and embers over glass slippers or true love's kisses

they were here first, before the rainstorms and the whirlwinds happened

they were here first, wandering the halls pretending the glitter on their face was pixie dust

and the freckles on their wrists were constellations

they were here first, but they left the fairy lights for you

they left the daisies carved in the front porch railings for you

and the hollow tree behind the swing still cherishes their drawings

just like the rose bushes still hold onto their lost hair ribbons and long forgotten tears

the luscious garden a gorgeous kingdom just large enough for their secrets

and for the stories they wish were in their books

the story goes that the butterflies atop the driveway gate were the girls' idea

the story goes that the house wasn't theirs, that they were travelers desperate for a home

the story goes that they were sisters, not by blood but by stars

the story goes that the ivy climbing the walls and windows of the mansion

could no longer be tamed once their epilogue came to an end

people say that once the girls learned there was no Neverland

that the midnight hour was an actual monster, that losing your voice was not just fantasy,

that poison did in fact come in sweet, that beauty could be cruel,

that happily ever after was a fight rather than a given victory,

it was as if a rainstorm broke loose and never stopped

but maybe that wasn't the girls' fault

maybe they were just the ghosts that predicted what was to come

come inside the gate, walk the driveway

the neighbors live a million little worlds away, telling their own stories of this place

as they sip tea so sweet it makes you wonder what all the sugar in the world is meant to hide

stories that are a thousand dimensions away from the actual truth, if such a thing even exists

come now, ring the bell of the olive door as you are bewildered by primroses

listen carefully to the sound of cats meowing and wings rustling

that almost overshadows the soft tingling like wind bells that make your heart tingle

come inside, enter the hallway with constellations decorating the mauve wallpapers

rumor has it the female assassin woman who lived here painted them herself

she turned the library into an armory and the parlor into a room filled with gowns and frocks

after buying the house from the notorious roaring twenties socialite for whom it was a palace

but oh well, that's just the rumors