Prose
By Any Means
Written March to May, 2020.
Excerpt from Chapter 11: "July 1989":
“Mister Yu.” Sang-Hoon took a step closer before remembering what this man had done and took three steps back, until he was pressed against the door. The metal was cold. “You’re bleeding.”
“I didn’t.” Yu Sung-Ho’s voice seemed to come from far away. His face was directed towards Sang-Hoon, but his eyes looked through him, as if he were preparing himself for something that might follow Sang-Hoon through the door. “I didn’t.”
Sang-Hoon felt that he might regret asking, but the words, “you didn’t what?” tumbled out of him anyway.
“I didn’t kill her,” Yu Sung-Ho said. “I would never… I would never do that.”
If he weren’t already pressed against the door, Sang-Hoon would have backed up further. “You already confessed, Mister Yu. Four hours ago.”
“I didn’t,” Yu Sung-Ho said again. He stared at nothing. The blood on his lips cracked as he spoke, flaking red onto the chrome table he was handcuffed to. “I didn’t.”
Steeled
Written April, 2018.
Excerpt:
The hands that hold you next are calloused and strong. There is nothing of the gentle love that seeped from hand to wood but, still, they hold you with care. It is respect that holds the hands where they are, and while it isn’t the warmth and never will be, it is close enough to the same. The hands are sturdy and familiar in a way that matters, and the unfamiliarity fades with time. When you meet stone you are healed to sharpness, and you can almost taste the fruit and vegetables again, the crusts of wheat. When you return to the hands they do not return you to your darkened prison but, instead, to a new home. The confines of the smooth wood are comfortable and strangely warm against your sides. You are useful again, now, your smile sharp. The hands do not greet you daily and you never again taste the soft wheat of unwanted crust. You develop a taste for charcoal, fat and rich earth that consumes you as you consume it. It is strong, just as the calloused hands, and you welcome the newness of it all. It is warm enough, now. Very rarely, when you taste sugar against you, your edges sing of a warmth that you should have long forgotten.
Blooming
Written May, 2017.
Excerpt:
He looked down and blinked at the smear of red that had ruined the white fabric. James wouldn’t be happy, especially since Elliot had stolen this shirt from him two days ago and it was one of James’s favorites. The more he looked at the stain, the bigger it grew. It was a blatant and desperate scream for aid but, still, he took a step away from Mhairi. His hands tightened around his mug, white knuckles on red porcelain.
“Not today,” he said.
Mhairi set her mug down on the table and it made a sound that caused Elliot to wince. “If not today then when?”
Elliot looked away and turned to stare out the window. Outside, the birds still had yet to stop chirping. His eyes drifted to the melting banks of snow that were sparse across the yard. He took a sip of his coffee.
“Not today.”