The 5 words are:

1. absence
2. crap
3. Monet
4. serenity
5. soulmate

The stories:

• The wind found its way up to a cloud that seemed to hover over the town below.

• ...to enter the bright eye...

• Monet would never have stooped to painting crap.
  

  The wind found its way up to a cloud that seemed to hover over the town below. On the cloud there is an angel, peering down on the people in the town. Her name is Monet. Her brown long hair dances in the wind. She is watching her soulmate that she never got to meet until she was dead. Funny isn't it? How things happen sometimes. That the person that finds you, moments after you've been shot to death, would be the one person that you've been looking for your whole life. The abscence of her in his life. The life together that they never had. She can feel that he misses her and that he wonders what could have been. The crap some people sometimes say about dead people haunting the living, shoud ought to be just that, crap. Yes, she as well as others stays behind to watch the living, to make life easier for them. But haunt? never. She felt a serenity fill her when she watched the man that should have been hers and that was heaven for her.
  (Avihenda)

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  ...to enter the bright eye...
  ...so I go shuffling out of life...
  ...just to hide in death a while...

  Those nights alone in his bed, his bedroom was not a place of serenity. On the contrary. Where his inner voice stopped the voices out on the streets would continue, loud and drunken voices.
  "Ah, ça, c'est un vrai Monet ça!"
  In a student town like his, he'd hear a lot of foreign words by just listening to the murmur of people passing by. But this sentence kind of disturbed him and he sighed for not having paid more attention in French class when he had the chance. Monnaie? Wasn't that French for small change? But somehow he knew that didn't fit. He got out of bed, 1am but he couldn't sleep anyway, and stumbled to the window. What he saw then wasn't quite what he had expected. The first thing he noticed was the lamp post gone, and when his eyes had adjusted, he realised that everything was gone. He found his appartment room at ground level, and right before him, in a spot light was an old gramophone playing. And no melody, no, he shivered, it was playing all those ordinary sounds that he'd listen to, hoping to fall asleep. He crawled out of his window. If any proverb fitted him, it would be "curiousity killed the cat", but he didn't know that yet. He walked to the gramophone and was just about to turn it off as he heard a voice coming right from behind him.
  "Non, non mon ami, ne le fais pas!"
  "What is this crap" he said, turning round to face whoever spoke to him, but there was only that discomfortable black that surrounded him, well not entirely. Where his window had been, he saw a painting of a paradisaical garden of some sort. "Monet", he whispered. It wasn't "monnaie", it was "Monet". But realising that hadn't brought him any further than where he started. Reluctant to distance himself from the only light source he had, he slowly started walking. A painting meant a wall, a wall, a room and before his mind's eye he had constructed some sort of reality he could cling on to: there had to be a wall at the other side too. Trusting his sense of direction, the shreds of it left, he continued step by step to the other side of the room. Surreal, he found himself back at the gramophone with the spot light and a painting. Yet as much as Monet's garden had been vibrant, full of light, the scene depicted here was darkish, eery. A tower reaching for the clouded sky, upon it men fighting. Most of those who had obviously fallen off lay motionless on the ground, but there were still some seemingly trying to strangle each other, with a last energy burst. He saw a note attached to the painting: "to my soulmate" and when he opened it up he noticed that someone had hastily scribbled one sentence on it. Everything clicked into place. He looked at the painting once again, the note fluttered out of his hand. As if it had come to him in a thousand voices, "Comme la confusion mène à la mort, la mort mène à la confusion", it needed no translation, no translation at all.

  The next morning, they found him, lying motionless on his bed. His old gramophone playing: "Ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas". As if it was still hoping that he could bring his owner back, from wherever he had gone to.
  (Lizzy)

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  Monet would never have stooped to painting crap. If you doubt these words of wisdom look at the serenity in his Water Lilies painting. There in the absence of turmoil I met my soulmate.
  (Tenaj)

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