Victoria C Zickas - “Best Buddy”
He walked out of his house in a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. His face was blank. His eyelids were lowered, eyes red and irritated from his lack of sleep and the bags under his eyes were extra prominent. His mouth was brought down into a frown as he took a long look at the dog in his arms. The german shepherd was covered in long, gray hairs and their eyes were barely crusted open. The man shook his head and took a deep breath. The door to his dusty, red suv was already opened. He gently placed his fragile dog on the backseat. He wrapped the gentle being with his childhood blanket. The blanket was a dark blue and it was covered in various amounts of trucks and construction vehicles. It had a dark blue and red fringe surrounding it. He took one last look at his aging friend and closed the door. He slumped into the driver's seat and closed the door. He took a deep breath and he lightly pressed his foot on the gas pedal and they were out of the driveway.
He couldn’t stop looking back. Every second of that drive he was maneuvering his eyes to the mirror or he would turn his head to check up on his pal. The german shepherd always looked back at him, eyebrows raised up and heavy eyes. The man kept looking back. As he was driving, he couldn’t stop thinking. He made sure to take every turn slowly or to hit his brakes earlier. They were about halfway there when the man took a very sharp turn into a gas station. The car’s tank was full. He rushed out of the car and ran to the back door. He jiggled and pulled on the handle to open it. He stood in silence and just stared. The dog slowly lifted its head to look at his life, his owner. The dog’s tongue slowly leaked out of its mouth and panted heavily. He kept staring at his pride and joy. The man smiled lightly as tears started building up. The man opened the passenger side door, lifted the dog up and brought it to the passenger seat. He gently placed it back down and closed the door. He walked sluggishly to the drivers side yet again and sat down, closing the door. He wiped his eyes with his fingers and sniffled a bit, looking towards the passenger seat. He moved his hand slowly towards the dog and petted it. The dog’s tail wagged lightly and it thumped against the car door. The man smiled briefly and wiped his nose with his fist. He pressed the gas pedal lightly and left the gas station.
The car was seconds away from hell. The man’s heartbeat was growing louder and louder the closer he got to the vet. He went there too often. He saw the small lake that he knew was across the building. He looked over at his pal again and looked back to the road immediately. He shook his head as his vision became blurred by tears. His mouth trembled and that warm feeling he knew all too well began to form. He saw the lake again in his peripheral vision and clicked on his turn signal. He turned into the empty parking lot and slowed down, searching for a parking spot. He kept going around and around the parking lot, looking for the perfect spot. There were only a few cars and they were parked farther away from the building. The man looked down at the dog and saw that its eyes could barely stay open. He bit his bottom lip and stared at his dog. He settled on a parking spot that was the farthest from the building. He parked, turned his keys and turned off his car. He turned the radio down and slumped back in his seat. His head turned up and he stared at the roof. He closed his eyes and sighed, putting his hands over his face.
“I’m so sorry.”
That was all he could blurt out. His face soon became stained with tears. He kept wiping his tears but they kept coming. His face became red with irritation from all of the wiping and his eyes were puffy. His slightly red eyes looked to the side to see his dog, his friend, just laying there. He looked back up to the ceiling.
“I promise that I will never replace you, okay?”
He turned his head and looked down, patting his dog’s head. He lightly grabbed his dog’s paw and shook it. He rubbed his fingers along the dog’s paw.
“I promise.”
He mustered up all the strength he could and opened the car door. He stepped out and stretched. Then, he made his way over to the other side of the car. His head was swollen with memories of his furry friend. The time it got so excited that when he placed the food bowl down for the dog, it stepped on the rim of the bowl and the food went flying; and the time when he placed his son on top of the dog while it was laying down and they took a nap together. The man opened the passenger side door and stopped. He looked at the dog’s eyes. The dog’s eyes were barely open and slightly glazed over. He got on his knees and leaned over his dog. He gently placed his head on his dog’s body and let a few tears slip out. He sat there for a bit, reminiscing. He thought of the time when they went on vacation and left the dog home alone and when they came back, the pantry door was open and there were boxes of snacks all ripped up and eaten. At his daughter’s birthday party, the dog followed her everywhere she went and sat next to her while she ate her cake… Then proceeded to eat the rest of the cake so no one else could even have a slice.
“I love you so much, buddy. You know that?”
He looked into his best friend’s eyes once again and stood up. He dusted his knees with his hands and lifted up his dog slowly. He turned around and used his foot to close the door. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and walked towards his worst nightmare, with a single tear trailing down his face.
Teja R Buddhavarapu - Finding My Post Chapters 1 & 2
A story of one family’s survival and their struggle to preserve tradition during the Japanese annexation of Korea in 1910.
Foreword
My intentions for writing this piece of historical fiction stemmed from my love for creating worlds and shaping experiences of real-life people that I see and read about. For this piece, I took my inspiration not only from Pachinko, but also from a yeot farmer featured in a documentary about Korea. He would say that life during this time was difficult and I found many commonalities between the items he discussed, and the difficulties mentioned in Pachinko. This story follows a boy who was kidnapped to serve the Japanese army especially on the Chinese front when Japan invaded Manchuria. This practice was seen to happen much more frequently during this period of time when Japan annexed Korea and only after WWII did Korea gain some independence from Japan. I hope that by reading through this story, readers are able to get a clear picture of the lives and experiences of everyday people that history tends to forgot, but whose stories are just as fascinating as everyone else’s.
Finding My Post
My grandfather, Bong-Seok Kang, used to tell my siblings and I a story of how he found his pulling post. He would say, “eolin-i, the day I found my pulling post was a day like any other.” He would tell us about how he would go roaming in the woods searching for wild bellflower and ginger roots, but I can’t remember what those times were like. A time when I wouldn’t be scared leaving my home. He would recount such insignificant details about the woods each time he told us this story and each time we would learn something new about what it was like back in Chungju, before Japan had anything to do with us. He was strolling down his path when he came across the tree. No matter how inconsistent grandfather’s story was, he always made sure to mention the tree. He would stand up and fall down, mimicking the way that the log toppled in front of him on that path. He would always light up during this part of the story when he remembered his post. He used to say that every tree in the forest was special, in its own way, yet we would never notice them until they fell. We would never understand their true beauty until their story came to an end. I never truly missed grandfather until now, when I look at the small portrait, we have of him and halmeoni on the wall in our small apartment, I think of the exciting times I had with him and his immortal stories. I am sure that he had more to tell, but it is my turn to tell the greatest story of them all. The story of how we became the best yeot producers in the land. The story of how our candy went from being trashed to being eaten by kings. The story of how a small beggar boy from Chungju made his family proud.
Chapter 1
It was a cool morning in 1910 and I had nothing better to do than to find sugar for my grandfather. There was no doubt in everyone’s mind that I was a misbehaved child but even I would not disobey him. Grandfather liked to think of himself as a retired farmer, but we all knew
that he worked just as hard then as he did when he was “working” a job. He still tended to his fields and every so often he would go to the market to sell his harvest for a few extra won. Unlike many others in the village, grandfather never wanted us to work as children, he would always say that a child only had two responsibilities, to learn and to obey his elders and to an extent I fulfilled one of those. On this occasion, however, my motives weren’t all selfless, I knew that grandfather was making yeot and I couldn’t wait for a piece. Every time he would make it, he would add a mystery ingredient and ask us to guess what it was. And every time we would look back at him after tasting it and say, “hal-abeoji, how would we know, all we can taste is yeot.” He would laugh and tell us the secret anyway, but we wouldn’t understand. At night, when the sun was just about to set, he would tell us a new story so that we wouldn’t get bored. Although my siblings would love the fantastical tales with dragons and princesses, I would always request for him to tell us his pulling post story since it was my favorite. On my way into town, I was thinking about which story he may tell us that night.
The market was fairly empty around this time of the year since no one could afford any of the things they wanted let alone needed. I strolled in and took the long way to the sugar ajummas near the end of the line of shops. I stopped at Jae-jin’s store; we had known each other as kids, and he would sometimes give me a small parcel of white rice to take home. He and his mother owned the only rice shop in town, but it was getting harder to supply white rice anymore. I could tell that my grandfather was troubled, but he would never show it. Everyone knew and loved our yeot, but it was getting harder to make as the shortages continued. This time when I stopped by at his shop, he was nowhere to be found but his mother was sitting inside sobbing. I decided to move on since I didn’t want to get into trouble like I used to when I would get to involved in other peoples lives. Last year, grandfather slapped me for talking back to the traveler
who stopped by and gave a look to my sister. I knew that I had to help Jae’s mother, but I couldn’t risk bringing shame to my family. I moved along and visited the other stores. I didn’t expect to get anything for free, but it was worth a shot sometimes.
Lastly, I found the sugar ajumma who was a sweet old lady who would sell her stock of sugar in the market almost four days a week. Our conversations were never more than a few sentences long, yet I feel like I have known her my entire life. Today was no different in this regard, I walked up and asked for the regular brown sugar parcel and I told her that my grandfather would pay her back at the end of the month. After the first week, there was nothing we could do to pay back the venders until we made the first batch of yeot to sell which happened during the third week or so. Like normal she grimaced and went about her day, mumbling about how she wouldn’t ever get paid although we made it a priority to keep her a supplier.
Walking back, I reflected on my younger years when we made yeot with white rice and white sugar. Back then, the yeot would look like an angel’s wing coming out of the pot and it would be fascinating to watch grandfather pull the yeot on the post. It was around the time of the “invasion” that the ajummas started selling off their stocks to prominent Japanese families in the region to make sure they didn’t call the police. First it was white rice that we couldn’t find, and gradually white sugar left the picture too. Gladly, we still were able to keep the yeot business, but business became very slow and it’s been a pain to pay off our debts. As I turned around to walk back home, I could tell something was wrong. All the ajummas started closing shop and everyone else who had come to the market after me started turning their heads. My hair was standing on end and I was about to turn around when I felt a sharp knocking on my shoulder from behind.
Chapter 2
Grandfather made it a point, since a young age, to pass on our family recipe for yeot. By our fourth birthdays my siblings and I were able to recite to him the process to procure yeot and how long and at what temperature to cook it. It was at age six that he started letting us into his factory. He would lead us out to a little shed behind the house and show us his post for pulling, the pots and pans he boiled the rice in, and the fire pit he used to melt the sugar. Before the shortages it was really quite easy to make yeot. We would first wash and cook the rice until it would be “as soft as a cloud,” he used to say. Then we would create the malt by washing barley and adding it to the rice with some water. We would boil this for hours until the mixture ferments into saccharine and then we add the sugar. After a couple more hours, grandfather is able to take out the yeot batter and pull it on the post. We were never allowed to do this since grandfather considered pulling to be the most important part of the yeot making process. He used to say that yeot can be made without a post, but it can be perfected with one. Once he has pulled the yeot, we would watch as he poured and stretched the batter as he cut long thin pieces of yeot and covered them in corn starch so they wouldn’t stick. We were taught to recognize good yeot from bad yeot from taste, color, and texture but at that young age we considered any treat to be good and we couldn’t be uncorruptible critics like grandfather.
Our most favorite part would be when we could taste the yeot and the flavor would fill our mouth with the taste of bellflower or ginger or even sometimes pumpkin if we were lucky. Grandfather drilled into us from an early age that rewards only come through hard work and he made it a point to make us sell the yeot for a fair price in the market the next day after it was made. Standing outside in the cold for hours on end made us realize that we weren’t the wealthiest family that lived in Chungju, but we weren’t poor either. We had to work hard with no
doubt in our minds, but we always had the consolation that we had a home to go back to and our grandfather to make yeot for us. It was that tap on the shoulder that made me live through my experiences with my grandfather for in reality, the chance that I would see him again were slim to none. I had heard about these things happening from halmeoni, but I never thought that I would be the victim of it too.
I always had bad eyes and I was never athletic, but I guess they were taking the weak ones too. I had not seen nor experienced the violence of the Japanese in my life off in the countryside of Korea and I thought I never would. Those shoulder taps were the last feelings I remember from my life in Korea as I was swept away never to see my family again, never to embrace my siblings or be kissed by my mother. I was taken, like the other men of Korea, I was taken as a boy and chiseled into the man that Japan needed to fight their battles for them. It was bad enough that they had invaded our homes but now they were taking us from our homes. This is the story of how a boy from Chungju, now a man by Japan, made it back to see his family in Korea. A story of how a soldier for Japan made it back to see his grandfather on his death bed. A story of how a legacy lived on through me, the legacy of making yeot.
Kehinde Adejumo - Attainability
“Bye Mom, I gotta go,” I say as I rush down the brown wooden stairs towards the living room. The living room has tan walls, dark green couch, red bookshelf, and brown carpet.
My mom’s face contorted into a deep frown. She stares at me with squinted eyes while on the phone with her employee.
“Make it work, Jeff. If you mess up again, you will be history. Got it? Adeola, before you go, fix your hair and your shoes. You don’t want to look– well you know.”
Ugh, this is bull.
“I’ll go change.”
“That’s my girl.”
I can’t believe I have to come up with another look!
My feet rush me to my bedroom. I sit down to get my shoes and my curler. The shoes are black pumps. I take four sections of my hair and hurry to get my signature wavy hair look. As I catch my own reflection, I stare at my outfit for a minute. My top was white with a pop-out collar and short sleeves. Mid-V-neck black sweater over it with brown buttons on the side. Then I have a mid-length maroon pleated skirt, black socks that reached up to my ankle to complement the black pumps. I moved my body closer to the mirror. Now my face was all I could see, my black eyebrows that I got done last week, my eyeshadow, maroon- colored with black eyeline to match. Only to go perfectly with my clear glossed lips, making them as plump as ever. I take a step back. I like what was staring back at me. My sweater matches my hair and shoes perfectly. My hands on my hips, posing to the mirror like it was my camera. As I look at my medium dark complexion, I hear my mom screaming.
“Adeola! Hurry up, I refuse to let you be late for school!”
“I’m coming!”
I run so fast down the stairs; I thought the heels to my pumps were going to break off. It took a miracle for me not to fall on my face.
“Come now, let me see your outfit.”
My mom’s eyebrows were scrunched. Her eyes trailed my body up and down. After a while, her face showed a smile.
“That is better. Don’t ever look like that again. Okay? Now get to school already, I would hate for you to miss class. After all, this is your last day of school before graduation.”
“Mom, I get your point.” I said while straddling my bookbag onto my back.
“Good. Love you Adeola!”
“Love you too, Mom.”
I can’t believe I just went through that. I shouldn’t be critiqued on my outfit choices! After all, she wears pantsuits and blazers most of the time.
As I go into my white car, I drive 70 miles per hour. I make it to school in 5 minutes and park in front of the school. I enter the hallway and familiar white painted walls, blue lockers, and tan floor tiles greet me. The bell would ring at 7:20am. It’s currently 7:05am. As I go to my locker, my best friend Esmerelda comes up to me.
“Adeola, why didn’t you pick me up?”
“I am so sorry, Esme. You see the thing is that--”
“Let me guess, does this have to do with your mom?”
“Yes. She made me change my outfit and I was almost late.”
I mean, could my mom be a little less obsessed with appearances? Sure. Could I have objected? Possibly. But whatever I could have done in that moment didn’t matter. I always must look my best. To present a front of calm tranquility. To never show what I am truly thinking. That is the way, my mom tells me. And I follow it to a “T”.
“Wow, that’s stupid? Well, I forgive you. Let’s talk before class starts.”
“Sure.”
“So how do you feel about graduating tomorrow? I feel like I’m not ready for it.”
“Well, I think it’s time.”
“Of course, you would say that. You’re the one giving the valedictorian speech.”
“Yes, and as the valedictorian, I believe our class is ready to move on with their lives. But for the time being, I’m just trying to figure out what to wear!”
“Girl, I got you. I can come over and help you choose what to wear.”
“Thanks Esme, you’re the best.”
I open my locker and grab my folders. We strut down the hallway to class with one leg over the other and one hand on the hip. As we laugh at each other, our teacher smiles as we enter the classroom.
“Adeola, why if that isn’t my favorite student! Come on, sit down!”
“Of course, Mr. Garcia.”
Throughout class, I raise my hand to answer questions. I get all the answers right. No shocker there, the class isn’t challenging. My teacher praises me, and I do a fake bow. It’s annoying how I’m the center of attention. Constant cheering from my classmates, teachers using you as an example for others, being student of the month, it never ends! Once class ends, I say bye to Esmerelda and talk to my teacher.
“So, graduation’s tomorrow! Have you written your valedictorian speech?”
“Yes, I have. My speech is the perfect end to high school. It going to blow people away for sure.”
“I have no doubt. See you then!”
“See you!”
I wave to him as I leave the classroom. The rest of the school day is a blur. Meet and greeting students, freshman calling you an inspiration, blah blah blah. I mean it’s kinda nice but I’m not some unattainable person. Why can’t they see that? Anyway, at the end of the school day, Esmerelda meets me at my car. We listen to top hits on the radio and scream to the lyrics. Once we reach the driveway, I can see my mother peeking through the window curtain with her eyes dashing.
“Adeola, we need to talk now,” my mother said.
“Mom, what is it?”
“Tell me what you wrote in your speech! I should proofread it. You know, just to make sure it’s--- Oh what’s the word?”
“Perfect,” they both say simultaneously.
“Mom, just trust me. It’s something no one will forget.”
“Okay. Just go over the speech tonight. Make sure it is exactly what you want to say. You only get to do this once, you know.”
“Believe me, I know. Mom, my name will go down in history. Promise.”
“Okay dear.”
Why doesn’t she trust me to write a good speech? What am I, a preschooler?
After that long ordeal, Esmeralda and I go up to my room. My room is a shade of pale pink, black vanity, and a white bedframe. Esmerelda throws her body onto my bed, with her arms propping her head up and her legs in the air.
“Okay so graduation day outfit. Tell me what we are thinking.”
“It’s going to be a blueberry color satin dress with straps and my back exposed. It tightens around the waist and poofs out slightly to give an hourglass figure. Then I will pair it with big gold flower earrings, gold flower pendant necklace and gold slingback stilettos to match. My hair will be straightened with the ends curled upward. My makeup with be blue eyeshadow and eyeliner with a nude lip.”
“Sounds like you have this all figured out.”
“You bet I do! Now can we figure out my look?”
“Of course! I’m thinking a pink satin off the shoulder dress, with a large slit on its right side. And matching black stilettos and clutch.”
“Oh my god, yes! That’s going to look so good.”
“I know right!”
“So now that we are done with our outfit planning, is your speech actually done or did you lie to your mom?”
“Of course, it’s done. But no one can see it yet. Not even you, Esme. Just trust me, no one will forget.”
“I trust you Adeola. I know you will crush it tomorrow.”
“Like always,” they both say.
Esme and I spend the rest of the afternoon talking about senior year and all the pressure leading up to tomorrow. We watch our favorite tv show from the 90s and ate Fritos. Then I dropped her at her house and went to sleep.
Graduation day is finally here. I get ready in my dream look. My mother nods as I pass by and tells me she will come to the graduation later. As I get to the school, I see my contact. His name is Drax. He’s 18 and is in my graduating class. I reached out to him 2 weeks ago. I was tired of my image. He came up with an idea to fix that. And at first it seemed crazy. But I soon went along with it.
“You got the stuff,” I said.
“Only if you got the money,” Drax said.
“Please you know I’m good for it. Give it to me!”
“Fine, you better keep your—”
“Promise. Yeah, yeah, your name says out of this.”
“Pleasure doing business with you.”
“I wish I could say the same.”
I run to the back of the school. Once I am inside, I go to the theatre stage to present my speech.
“Hello everyone, I am Adeola. I like to start off with saying that—”
Suddenly a teacher runs in.
“Everyone the classrooms are on fire! Get out everyone! Get out now!”
We evacuate the building and run to the parking lot. The teachers are trying to find each other, wondering what to do. The students are calling their parents. Some of the local news people are showing up. I try to get away from the crowd when someone grabs my hand. I turn around and see Esme.
“Esme, are you okay?”
“I am. Adeola, are you okay?”
“Yes I am. It’s a bummer I didn’t get to do my speech.”
“Hey, you still might get a chance.”
Like I want that.
The principal grabs a megaphone and talks to us.
“Students, we have been able to put out the fire. Luckily only 3 classrooms in the west wing got damaged. Unfortunately, we are going to have to post-pone the graduation for another month. Sorry guys.”
Esme nudges me with her elbow.
“What, Esme?”
“Aren’t you sad? I know how much you were looking forward to this.”
“Yeah, its devasting.”
The cops suddenly show up. They tell the local news people to quiet down. Apparently, they have an announcement.
“Everyone, please settle down. The cause of the fire was Adeola Musa. She put an explosive behind the west wing. Adeola, you’re under arrest.”
Esme suddenly backs away from me. Everyone looks at me with disgust, pity, and confusion. As I get pushed into the cop car, my mom comes out of the crowd.
“Please officer, that’s my daughter. It’s probably not her. What about that Drax kid? He looks suspicious.”
The cops drag her away as the car drives to the station. I get thrown into a room with nothing but two chairs and a table. The officer sits me down and go across from me. He asks me questions on why I did what I did. I tell him that I was breaking down. Everyone sees me as perfect, and I snapped one day. I called Drax up for some explosives. I wanted to make sure my reputation could change forever. At the time, Drax said that it would cause a minor fire. He turned out to be right. After telling my story, the cops said I need to do counseling for a year. In that year, I would have to retake my senior year. My mom is disappointed and angry. Esme keeps her distance but talks to me on occasion. I hate what I did and how it affected people. I just hope that I can make it right, somehow.
Evan C Wojtalewski - Pale Blue Dot
“Going home…” She said.
“Aye,” muttered Dutch, a scruffy man whose wrinkly face hid behind a jungle of poorly kept facial hair, “but you better settle in. It’ll be ‘nother 7 months before you’ll walk on solid ground again.”
Natasha showed a small, considerate smile, and turned back to face the view hole. The inky blackness of space lay mere inches before her, separated only by some well assembled aluminum (or at least she hoped it was). Their magnificent vessel coasted gracefully through the void, departing from a dusty red rock, 4th from the Sun. Mars.
The ship had just begun its 7 month return journey to Earth: a place the crew had come to dearly miss. The 7 valiant members of the crew were the first to pioneer and step foot on another planet. A remarkable leap for humanity, and a milestone that was outlandish mere decades earlier. Despite this unparalleled honor, these 7 people found themselves on a totally new land full of mystery and thought only of home. Never before had it been so clear to them where they had come from. These thoughts flooded Natasha’s head and filled her with a sense of longing. Longing for where all humans belong. Before she could get fully sappy on herself, she heard footsteps approaching her.
“Hey, we’re going to celebrate the take off. Got some old whiskey that Jacobs had smuggled onboard. Nasty stuff. You should join us.” A warm smile upon Yelena’s face did well to convince her.
“Oh, you know me,” she sighed, “I never turn down a good drink.”
She stood, and the two walked to the dining area where the remainder of the crew sat gathered around a table. The sun cast a blinking shadow repeatedly on the bottle of whiskey as it occasionally popped through the windows while the ring of the ship spun, providing a comfortable sense of gravity. The faces of 7 strangers laughed together, come to be friends across a grueling trip. Together they passed the months together and showed that even when millions of miles away from home people will still recreate that feeling in whatever way possible.
After the long 7 months had passed, and the crew had developed some cabin fever, they yearned for the feel of good solid land once more. Natasha had just gotten up for the day and prepared herself in her quarters. After getting dressed she stepped out of her cabin and made her way to the living area. They should be arriving within the week. As she stepped into the living area she saw only Dutch there, standing in front of the large windows, a steaming mug in his hand. As she approached him she saw a resolute smile barely peeking through the crag of grey beard. Standing next to him, she looked out into space. For a while they said nothing, then she finally asked,
“What are you smiling for, you old coot?”
Dutch chuckled, then pointed out the window with his free hand. “You see that pale blue dot?”
She squinted, then noticed it. After a moment, emotion washed over her. “Earth…”
“Aye.”
There, amongst the speckled backdrop, lay a tiny, pale, blue dot. The Earth. Sanctuary for the only known life in the Universe. The place where people bicker and fight, where people laugh and play, where all history has unfolded, and where all call home. There, in the desolate void, it lay: fragile, yet magnificent. The utter scale dwarfs any person as they try to comprehend it, including Natasha. Never before had she felt so homesick. Looking upon her planet, her home filled her with a sense of yearning, and a sense of grief. The petty quarrels of men seemed so silly from such a perspective, and despite the unending human desire to conquer the unknown they always wish to return to where they belong. For Earth is the home of humanity, and to neglect that home would spell the end for not only oneself, but for all. After all, it’s the only place protecting us from that cold, unforgiving void. She would’ve continued with this melancholy thought, rather contently, if it were not for Dutch slurping loudly on his coffee, ruining the moment. He let out a refreshing sigh.
“Reckon we’re doin’ a pretty good job… “He muttered, “For humanity that is.”
In that moment, the resolute smile crept across her face too.
“Yeah… I suppose we aren’t doing so bad either.”
Morgan Lynn - Snowed In
Whispers come across the room delicately scratching my inner ear.
“Hold your breath.” I look into Stella's dilated pupils. “Do you hear that?”
We’d been stocked into a cupboard in the basement of Winslor’s mansion, like hookers stashed from a frenzied wife. Tools dug into my ass, as I curled up with my legs against my chest. Our scheme was simple: seduce, slit, then leave. They weren't supposed to come so soon- let alone at all, this was supposed to be in and out. A and B. A blood shower for the girls. Me and Stella barely got undressed, let alone close enough to Winslor to slit that motherfucker's throat, before whatever gang that has some unsettled business came barging in on our business. Somehow we became the damsels in distress packed like scared rats in a box.
Now me and Stella are normally girls to fight, and I'm sure we could take on the three heavy boot steps just by avoiding gaze. But geniuses think out of the box, maybe this will lead to bigger and better things who are these men that believe they contain enough power to have Winslor bent over screaming for his mother. I’d like to find out, maybe get myself bent. Mob wife is always a fun game. Fuck it, we are two 5’8 bitches with long golden legs and C cups. We have ivory and sage lingerie on for Pete's sake. Like they wouldn't instantly pity us as the poor girls somehow involved in their gruesome business. It would be easier to be obvious than sneak around I suppose. This is annoying though we were Supposed to be in and out and now we are in here. The agency might be back soon with Kyle, and then what? We can't blow his cover with them. That could put all three of us at risk of being scooped intp sex trafficking. We might as well make it worthwhile, get some action out of this failed day and get out of this fucking cupboard.
I lean down to Stella’s ear after she nods in agreement that the whispers aren't just my imagination. “Should we have some fun?” “Remember New Orleans?” somehow we found ourselves in a similar predicament earlier this year at Mardi Gras, that one more by choice. Definitely by choice- and well planned, we’d picked those men the day before at the parade and watched them for a couple hours to be sure they could supply what we wanted- a dress up game of being the crime lord's girl. From there the manipulation was slick, pieces fell into place with minimal effort. With this there's a risk, if they know our faces it could spell trouble, but Winslor lives in a mountain village of North Dakota with a higher bear population than humans. So seemingly it's game time.
Stella’s eyes vibrated with excitement and she scooped her tits so they'd push up in her bra. I did the same and brushed through my hair lightly.
“Okay, one- two- three” Stella whispered with her hand in position to open the cupboard, the whispers were close enough now we could make out what they were saying. “Where’s those fucking girls?”
Stella yanks her hand from the door and holds it in her lap. The blood drained from her body and turned her face pale. I felt my own do the same. We both could only stare at each other. It was a rubber band snapping me back into reality, I could see me and Stella both going through our memories like a picture book of every wrong we have done and how that could possibly lead to these men searching for us. Sure there was a lot to dig from, but the lengths went to assure anonymity of me and Stella’s identities let alone locations made this hard to realize. Someone would've had to have found the location of Winslor’s mansion, which is tied into a tight bow between him and the hooker agency we used to procure our entrance. Flown to
this mountain town in the middle of bumblefuck North Dakota. We were flown in on a private jet that landed on his property. Winslor doesn't play with his own security, and neither do me and Stella. We are basically ghosts, new names wherever we go, and I haven't had a form of identity since ‘99. We sat in that cupboard for at least 5 hours, listening to the crashes of glass, and chimes of crystals hitting the ground, the groaning of a probably half dead Winslor. Only when we heard the engines of at least three trucks turn on and pull off slowly down the snowy road, did we creep out of the cupboard.
“What the actual fuck- did you tell anyone what we were doing?” I said to Stella. “No- of course not, I'm not insane. Kyle is the only one who knows.” She said to me, and we both realized the contents as she spoke it into existence. That motherfucking prick, he tried playing us the same fucking way we played his whole squad. Kyle asked us to go to the middle of nowhere North Dakota, get completely undressed with only a knife small enough to fit in my ring. We are both such idiots. I twirl the ring around my finger before throwing it to the floor and crushing it with my foot.
He’d given us the 200k before we flew out, and I'm sure those goons slipped it out of my coat pocket by now. How could we be so oblivious, careless, stupid.
“We are never working with a man again I swear. They are all annoying. This is A and B business from now on.” I look at Stella shaking my head down. I could feel the goosebumps taking over my body as the cool concrete made contact with my feet.
“Let's go find some clothes, Brooke your lips look like they'd freeze off.”
We walked up the two flights of ornate red velvet steps. On the way we passed a streak of blood down the ivory carpet that led to his living room. At least we accomplished some goal today. Although set up Winslor did rape Kyle’s 12 year old niece who got trafficked through the same agency, so Mother fucker deserved what he got coming. What a cheap bastard Kyle is trying to kill two birds with his one meager stone. Have us do the dirty work before slitting our throats just the same. Although I smiled at the thought of Winslor suffering, and by the sounds of his screams those men messed him up more than letting him bleed out like the pig he is would've.
“Fuck him, fuck them both” I spat on his carpet as we entered the master bedroom, where Winslor had ushered us out in just a robe and underwear only a few hours ago. Our coats had been expectedly stolen, probably a last ditched attempt to murder us by hypothermia, but the idiots had left his glorious closet fully stocked. Me and Stella got dressed like business men. Fedora’s covering our hair and thick black coats, slacks, and leather snowshoes. We had to wear three pairs of socks each to get our feet to fit into his shoes- Winslor had some small teeny weeny baby feet apparently.
“So what’s the plan? You want to go see if we can find some keys to the cars in the garage?” I pull on the last shoe and look towards stella.
“Yeah I guess that’s the best bet right? You think the agency is still coming to get us?” Stella questioned back.
“Fuck all if I care im not going back with them, we should try and get out before they come. If Kyle was able to get us in, I'm sure he can assure we don't get out.” I said to her as we walked back down the stairs and to the rack of keys hanging next to the door. “Yeah exactly.” Stella’s voice remained calm and she grabbed off every key on the rack.
“Okay let's go get one of these cars.” We head to the garage and open the metal door who’s padlock had been melted off by nitric acid and water- a trick I taught to Kyle that confirmed his hand in this hunt.
“Those pig fucking- ass licking– cunt bastards.” I hear Stella swear loudly as my view becomes the same. Every single car had the tires slashed, and we stepped into the radiating pool of gasoline that had been leaked from all their tanks.
“Oooooooooooooooh Kayyyyyyy.” I say and we slowly back out, closing the door. “We should probably get out of here before ya know we get blown to pieces?” “Definitely in agreement.” One thing I admired about Stella was she was just as calm as me, we have never been in a situation we haven't been able to get out of and she knows it. Even with this, it's another day, another adventure more exciting than getting high and watching The Simpsons over a frozen meal. This was an experience, more money than most salaries. Even if we didn't get to keep it today. It is just another day. Our way of living. “Where should we go?” Stella asked. I could see the cold air hitting her cheeks, already turning them red.
“I think the best bet is climbing up that big hill and trying to see any roadways.” She nodded her head and we began the hike through 2 feet of snow. Winslor wasn't good for nothing after all, his coats are what is keeping us alive.
The early morning sun blessed us with enough light to make the voyage. The whole way Stella and I kept in communication with our sniffles, our mouths too frozen to speak till we reached the top.
“Honestly dude I'm about to make a fire. I snagged this multitool and lighter from the cupboard before we left cause it was practically shoved in my ass crack the whole time” Stella shivered through her teeth and began picking up the sticks canopied under snow. I laughed and rubbed my leg where a screwdriver had dug a hole.
“Smart I'm gonna go to the edge to see what I can find.”
My feet dangle off the hillside and their weight begs me to let them sink into the ever expanding iris of the earth below, to be placed delicately into the hands of the devil as lilith. I've often met devils capable of love. Kyle being the bane of Stella’s existence for the last three months, then subsequently trying to murder her (and me) only proves this theory. That the warmth of a gruesome creature encapsulates us. We see it in each other, and we’re best friends for that reason. But each time I choose that path im Drained down a dank wet hole, into a pit that will take all my will to escape. It's a tired idea but validation is what holds me here. Whether that be a soft gaze, a flick of my lower lip with oil stained thumbs. The gentle touch of a cold shaft unloaded, with my lover’s fingers readily on the trigger. The money that comes pouring in from risking lives of me and my friends for the sick goals we think make us superior. It’s wrong to live as we do, but that overarching orgasmic fill of insanity keeps me drinking the kool aid. Keeps me oblivious to schemes men like Kyle try to pull.
It's Adrenaline; the world's most dangerous drug, and I’m an addict. I want to experience the filthy thoughts that can only be bled from the human mind. The intrusive thoughts I can explore instead of partake. Each time losing the essence of myself as I travel dimly, into a world where nothing retains meaning and I live by the sheer audacity of my being.
It was as if I was in a theater, and the curtains were the furled leaves of the willow trees who valiantly guarded my view. Salt thick water rushes into the bridge between my eyelids, I
smack them against the crusted hills of my lower lash line. Crack my sclera like thin ice on the Winslor pond as I look through the flurry of snow. I'm able to make out a soft glow of red lights zooming in and out of trees. Not many but as I've been sitting I have counted at least 8. Seems like a major road, and I don't mind a walk. On the plane ride here, I saw what looked to be a small trucker city a couple miles out. Shouldn't be too long before we got a ride and some cash. Men on the road are quite the easy targets. I look over my shoulder as I begin the short walk to the clearing where I see the smoke from Stella’s fire. “Hey I found a way out, are you ready?”