my favorite nct moment of all time 

me: who is this kpop boy

someone 5 minutes later without fail: sorry to tell you but he murdered a woman predebut 😔

me:

Yuta’s Healing Smile ♡

CAN DE TALK ABOUT YEOJIN

MIA AND MAYA by Yah Yah Scholfield // 7.8k words // a horror story with twins / mirror image from the twilight zone / us dir. jordan peele // 

To be clear, there was nothing in particular that pushed Mia into killing her sister that warm Tuesday night. There were no fights, no screaming matches, no petty arguments bottled up in Mia’s chest, festering, aging, waiting to be decanted upon Maya when the mood (or memory) struck. She’d been kind to her sister all day in fact, cordial if not entirely friendly. When asked, she paired up with her in science class, sat with Maya during lunch to compare wet sandwiches and, once at home, made a point of helping Maya with some difficult math homework. Even before bed, when they were washed and cleaned, mouths tasting of mint toothpaste, she told Maya, whisperingly, that she loved her and meant it.

The girls turned over in their beds, Mia to the left and Maya to the right. They pulled the blankets over their shoulders, thinking of their nice day and how nice it was to kind to one another, and that maybe, just maybe, they’d been childish to play all those mean tricks on each other. They could be friends, thought the girls individually. There was enough time for reconciliation, if they tried at it.

What a surprise it must’ve been then, when Mia silently rose from her bed, armed herself with a pillow, crossed over to Maya’s side of their bedroom and proceeded to smother her. Her face was obscured, smushed down by fabric, but Mia could imagine it, her eyes all wide and watery with panic, the jerky movements of her head.

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PICTURED: MARY MAGDALENE AT THE TOMB by Yah Yah Scholfield // 3.9k words // commission piece for @tallwife // sympathy for lady vengeance dir. park chan-wook + ‘arsonist’s lullaby’ by hozier + hereditary dir. ari aster 

Afterwards, once the crowd of gawking neighbors had disappeared, and once the police were through with their questions, and once the coroners had carefully, gingerly lifted the charred body from the burnt grass and onto the stretcher, there was only Janine standing on the lawn. She stood there for a while, still and silent, arms wrapped around her body, dry-eyed, blinking dazedly, drunkenly, confusedly, at the blackened smudge of turf. A breeze came through and sent whirls of ash flying through the air. A burnt scrap of fabric fluttered by. Janine watched it soar up into the sky, high, higher, until it caught itself on a branch.

It took the lady from next door, Barbara or Kelly or something like that, coming over and physically guiding her inside the house to be released from the spell. The woman made tea and unearthed a tin of cookies for them to nibble on. She ate an entire row of the cookies, crumbs spilling everywhere, and Janine had nothing at all. Barbara-or-Kelly-or-Something kept tipping the tin to Janine, offering her her own snacks, trying to pry the tears out of her with tea, but Janine turned it all down. She couldn’t stand to eat, couldn’t stand to see the woman’s fingers rifling through her drawers, running over her boxes of teas, the sugar and the dainty silver spoons. Each gesture brought to mind visions of her—pouring hot water over loose leaves, fasting for days on end and, once she felt as if she did her duty well, diving into the pantry, scarfing down the Oreos, the Chips Ahoy, the sweet Danish butter cookies she adored.

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STRANGE FRUIT by Yah Yah Scholfield / 1.6k words /

           Summer’s the best time for picking fruit. Though it buds and ripens all year round, there’s no better time than the height of summer, all the heat radiating off the sidewalk and the car windows, people’s radiators blowing cool-hot air, the whirring sound of the A/C mingling with the sound of music, talking, cussing, summer bugs. Feels like one big hum, the skin and scalp prickling with sweat, like you could wring yourself out and dry on your porch.

           Mama’s too sick to go with us this time, so me, Rochelle, Tito and Kiki go by ourselves. Takes a while to get there if you don’t have a car or a bike. Kiki and Tito­— they’re siblings, half—used to have bikes but their Daddy put them away after what happened with Ricky. Too close to home, he said, so now all of us, all four of us, were walking down the street, some of us holding machetes, some of us holding garbage bags, heading out to the field where all the fruits were. As we go, more people join us. It’s some kids, some adults, but all of us look the same, brown and black carrying our things, lugging wagons and strollers, holding knives and garden shears to make the cutting easier, going in the same direction.

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i will be crying about this for days