Yakuza She bowed at his feet, this kind, petite girl subjected to the horrors of the man at too young an age. She was merely fourteen years old, fresh faced and completely innocent like any good girl. Her pale lilac kimono was kept closed and slightly wrinkled as she leaned over her own knees. He felt no compulsion to see what she looked like, though his son felt differently. Her onee-san stood beside her, nervously fiddling with the sleeve of her own grey kimono.
"Please, take this girl as payment oyabun-sama! We don't have the money you require, but I'm sure you could use her for something." the guilty woman persuaded. The young girl felt unease churn in the pit of her stomach. She knew what was happening. The okiya she had been sold to had borrowed money from the local yakuza boss, and when he came collecting, they hadn't made back the money he needed. They were hoping to sell her off to the boss since they couldn't repay hi
Bambini “Zio’s here, Zio’s here!” Agostino, named after his Nonno, cried from the doorway. I was in the kitchen, preparing gnocchetti with mushrooms, broccoli rabe and vodka cream sauce, one of the dishes Papa used to make more often than not. I smiled, though didn't leave the kitchen. He’d make his way in here soon enough.
I heard two sets of footsteps, one light and quick, the other calm and paced. Soon enough, I heard a sharp intake of breath after the sound of someone leaping from the marble floor. I removed the rolls from where they were baking and placed them on the counter to cool. The same calm steps from earlier came toward the kitchen, a pair of heavy ones following not far behind. Hands slipped around my waist as a kiss was planted on my cheek.
“Your hermano is here.” he whispered, and I turned to face the two men. Valentín let me go so I could do so, and Fabricius stood not far behind, holdin
Of Russian Winters and CandlesticksDim.
Dim, and dark, and cold beyond belief.
That’s how it is here.
Not a light
Brighter than that
Of a candlestick
Nor a bit of warmth,
Anything to buffer the cold.
It’s been days,
Years that I've been here;
Trapped inside my own demented mind,
Left to rot
In the freezing darkness.
I've lost all hope at ever recovering,
Of escaping this fictional prison
And returning to normal.
Now I sit and die
At this little desk
With only a candle as company.
Sorella I sat on the porch as I’d done in my youth, though this time, I was all alone. Everyone I knew was dead to the world. It’s a sobering thought. Papa had died when I was still seventeen, and fratello still lay in his bed, unable to return to the world of the living. He wasn't there when Papa was buried, and he didn't accompany me when I went to clean Mama and Papa’s headstones, though Signore Venicia has assured me time and time again that he was alive and well. Just ‘sleeping’.
He’d been sleeping for years now. Six years, four months, and twenty-two days to be exact. I’d counted. It was now only I who supported the two of us, making money by patching and making dresses and overalls and just about anything else the people in town required to keep themselves clothed; though, I never even venture out to town anymore. Little Domenico brought me pieces to work on, took them back to the person they belon
Fratello He sat on the porch every day. Mio fratello. I wish I still had the chance to sit beside him, doing nothing more than watching the trees sway in the wind. I would kill to be able to relax with him again. Just one. More. Time. I was so stupid back then, thinking I was the smartest person in the world, that I could never do a wrong.
He was born when I was four. He was so tiny; I remember my Mama smiling down at him as she held him in her arms, him trying to grab my Papa and I with his chubby little hands. I remember holding my finger out to him, smiling in absolute delight when he grasped it tightly.
It was years later when we found out something was wrong with his vocal chords. Mama used to sit with him on the couch, trying to get him to repeat what she was saying. He’d open his mouth as if he was trying to say something, mouthed the word, but he never made a sound. We started getting discouraged when he was four and still hadn't sa
The Geist and I She follows me. I swear, I'm not crazy, this is really happening. I don't know her name; really, I'm starting to think she's more of an 'it' than a 'she', but for now, let's just say it's a she.
I see her everywhere; at school, at the park; in my home. She hasn't really done anything to me, but knowing that there's someone I don't know living in my house with me is sort of creepy. If I'm going to be honest, she's actually very kind; I've taken to just calling her Geist. You know, German for ghost, ha ha, very clever.
Sometimes she'll even act as a friend. She'll sit there and listen to me when I'm sick and alone at home and have nobody to talk to, occasionally nodding her somewhat-transparent blonde head; but she never speaks. I don't know if she can't, or if she just doesn't want to, but whatever it is, she is forever silent.
I still remember the first time I saw her. It was in my home. I sat there, adorable six-year-old me, play
Running. Never hiding, just running. That's all she'd ever known. Running from those who have hurt her, those who want to hurt her, too afraid to stop for those who cared for her. She ran, from people and problems, only pushing further when she felt her calves burn; and it became her. She became known as the Bird, sprinting so fast that people swore they saw her fly.
She felt like a bird; above all her problems, wind rushing past her as she soared through the air. But she wasn't a bird. When she slowed down, she knew this; and because of that, she ran faster, further from reality.
She ran from people who had abused her for years beforehand; teasing her because of her small size and big dreams, the heart so big it nearly popped out of her petite body. From the parents who didn't care for her and left her rotting in an orphanage full of big people with small hearts. Big people who looked down at her, squishing her beneath their shoes l