mocha #10 + malt, sprinkles, caramel -'bunny ranch'
hey! I'm not sure how active I'm going to be here during nanowrimo (I might be stealing a prompt list to help get me through, we'll see) but I'd love to be wrimo-buddies with any of you guys who are doing it. my name on there is darcylane :) ANYWAY, STORY:
Author: hi_falootin
Prompt: mocha 10. mind your own business (taken literally, lol)
Toppings: Caramel, Rainbow Sprinkles
Extra: MALT! Sly dared me, Write some caramel with Malila!
Word Count: 957
Rating: PG13
Notes: Malila's POV, 10 or so years later, 2nd person.
You're standing in the bathroom with your sleeves rolled up, a bunch of hookers watching you, and you're plunging the toilet when you realize you really, really need a vacation. Things could be worse, really.
You're standing in the bathroom with your sleeves rolled up, a bunch of hookers watching you, and you're plunging the toilet when you realize you really, really need a vacation.
This is so, so easy. The clog comes out with a pop, and you wish you felt just alittle surprised when a condom comes bubbling up to the top of the pee-water, but truthfully you just feel pissed.
"Who the fuck is still flushing these?"
No one speaks up. There's Patricia, Anna, and Karine and they all just stand there looking at you. Then they all start denying it, all at once.
You wave your arms and cut them off. "More importantly, why can't any of you fix a clogged toilet yourself?"
Jesus, they're like children. Big, lazy children. When you got into this business you thought hookers were hard-working (it makes sense, right?), but these girls, they spend most of their time sitting on the couch, eating all the mac and cheese you put in the cabinets and arguing about who has to take what call.
"I guess we're just too stupid, Mailia," Karine says; it's half mouthing-off, half trying to make you feel bad for her.
"Well next time, can you at least try before you call me?" You think about adding, I have a life too, you know but outside of work...do you really?
You need a vacation.
* * *
The thing about days like today is, sometimes you forget how young you are. Sometimes you really start to feel like a crusty, old, Dolly Parton-esque Madame and you have to remind yourself you're just now coming up on thirty. Two of the girls are older than you.
And at your age, your mom was working a minimum wage job at some fast-food eatery, at your age your father was working in a factory. At your age, Mom and Dad were working their asses off to support the family, but you, well, you sometimes have the disgusting task of fishing used condoms out of used toilets, but it's mostly smooth sailing. The oldest profession is also the easiest, as long as you're on the right side of things, as long as you touch the money and not the men.
So yeah, you're successful. And all it really cost you was your morality. All you really had to do was look at these girls who probably come from fucked up families and have never had a chance in life and allow them to whore for you. Easy.
You're not rolling in dough, but you certainly aren't hurting for it.
* * *
Your sister calls from her fancy New England law school and you want to ask if you can fly out and visit her, like maybe you can sleep on the floor of the tiny room she's renting from one of the other students and share her bricks of Top Ramen and pretend you're a broke teenager again.
Instead you say, "When are you coming to visit?"
Mosi laughs and tells you she's got exams coming up, she's got a new boyfriend, now probably isn't a good time but maybe around the holidays?
You say, "Yeah, yeah, okay. Sounds good" and try your best to keep your mind from sticking on that word, boyfriend.
It's just, when your primary interactions with men involve watching them pay prostitutes for sex, the very idea of a man seems kind of skeezy and you can't really imagine what your sister would want with one.
Then you kind of want to slap yourself for thinking that.
You're sure you've had boyfriends who weren't skeezy.
It's just been a while, that's all.
* * *
So you're running a little late to work now, because the girls needed more Kraft dinners and the lines at Costco were completely outrageous. You feel like a mother bear or something, bringing all this food back to your bear cubs. Or do bears even do that? Is it some other animal? Birds? Are you thinking of a nest of baby birds, with all their open mouths, all helpless and stuck in a tree?
You fumble your key into the lock at the side door and dump your shopping bags down in the kitchen. It seems pretty quiet, but by now the girls should be showing up to wait for calls. The calls won't come until later (they never really do) but this a business and you like to run it like once.
You holler for Patricia and thankfully, she's there.
"Sorry I'm late," you say, poking your head into what you usually call "the living room" though it's more so "the waiting room." Patricia's on the couch with her feet up, the television muted on some soap opera, maybe a Spanish one.
"Yeah, yeah, no problem." Patricia flashes her big fuchsia grin. "Hey, someone came by to see you, Malila. I went ahead and let her in, hope that's okay."
"Uh..." Really quick, in your head, you go through the list of people who might stop by, people you owe money to, people you offered a job to, maybe...
"Oh, she's in the bathroom." Patricia points with her mouth the way that Native girls do, the way you do sometimes when you're not consciously trying to seem different from them.
As if on cue, the bathroom door swings open with that awful creaking noise, and you turn and look. At first all you see is a woman in a brown leather jacket, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, big dream catcher earrings dangling to her shoulders and you think Who's she?
and then it hits you and your jaw kind of drops.
"Hey, 'Lila," she says, "I think your toilet's clogged."
You just shake your head and say, "Dee!"
I feel a bit...eeeevil for making that the end. But I will probably write more in this story. <3 Malila.
Author: hi_falootin
Prompt: mocha 10. mind your own business (taken literally, lol)
Toppings: Caramel, Rainbow Sprinkles
Extra: MALT! Sly dared me, Write some caramel with Malila!
Word Count: 957
Rating: PG13
Notes: Malila's POV, 10 or so years later, 2nd person.
You're standing in the bathroom with your sleeves rolled up, a bunch of hookers watching you, and you're plunging the toilet when you realize you really, really need a vacation. Things could be worse, really.
You're standing in the bathroom with your sleeves rolled up, a bunch of hookers watching you, and you're plunging the toilet when you realize you really, really need a vacation.
This is so, so easy. The clog comes out with a pop, and you wish you felt just alittle surprised when a condom comes bubbling up to the top of the pee-water, but truthfully you just feel pissed.
"Who the fuck is still flushing these?"
No one speaks up. There's Patricia, Anna, and Karine and they all just stand there looking at you. Then they all start denying it, all at once.
You wave your arms and cut them off. "More importantly, why can't any of you fix a clogged toilet yourself?"
Jesus, they're like children. Big, lazy children. When you got into this business you thought hookers were hard-working (it makes sense, right?), but these girls, they spend most of their time sitting on the couch, eating all the mac and cheese you put in the cabinets and arguing about who has to take what call.
"I guess we're just too stupid, Mailia," Karine says; it's half mouthing-off, half trying to make you feel bad for her.
"Well next time, can you at least try before you call me?" You think about adding, I have a life too, you know but outside of work...do you really?
You need a vacation.
* * *
The thing about days like today is, sometimes you forget how young you are. Sometimes you really start to feel like a crusty, old, Dolly Parton-esque Madame and you have to remind yourself you're just now coming up on thirty. Two of the girls are older than you.
And at your age, your mom was working a minimum wage job at some fast-food eatery, at your age your father was working in a factory. At your age, Mom and Dad were working their asses off to support the family, but you, well, you sometimes have the disgusting task of fishing used condoms out of used toilets, but it's mostly smooth sailing. The oldest profession is also the easiest, as long as you're on the right side of things, as long as you touch the money and not the men.
So yeah, you're successful. And all it really cost you was your morality. All you really had to do was look at these girls who probably come from fucked up families and have never had a chance in life and allow them to whore for you. Easy.
You're not rolling in dough, but you certainly aren't hurting for it.
* * *
Your sister calls from her fancy New England law school and you want to ask if you can fly out and visit her, like maybe you can sleep on the floor of the tiny room she's renting from one of the other students and share her bricks of Top Ramen and pretend you're a broke teenager again.
Instead you say, "When are you coming to visit?"
Mosi laughs and tells you she's got exams coming up, she's got a new boyfriend, now probably isn't a good time but maybe around the holidays?
You say, "Yeah, yeah, okay. Sounds good" and try your best to keep your mind from sticking on that word, boyfriend.
It's just, when your primary interactions with men involve watching them pay prostitutes for sex, the very idea of a man seems kind of skeezy and you can't really imagine what your sister would want with one.
Then you kind of want to slap yourself for thinking that.
You're sure you've had boyfriends who weren't skeezy.
It's just been a while, that's all.
* * *
So you're running a little late to work now, because the girls needed more Kraft dinners and the lines at Costco were completely outrageous. You feel like a mother bear or something, bringing all this food back to your bear cubs. Or do bears even do that? Is it some other animal? Birds? Are you thinking of a nest of baby birds, with all their open mouths, all helpless and stuck in a tree?
You fumble your key into the lock at the side door and dump your shopping bags down in the kitchen. It seems pretty quiet, but by now the girls should be showing up to wait for calls. The calls won't come until later (they never really do) but this a business and you like to run it like once.
You holler for Patricia and thankfully, she's there.
"Sorry I'm late," you say, poking your head into what you usually call "the living room" though it's more so "the waiting room." Patricia's on the couch with her feet up, the television muted on some soap opera, maybe a Spanish one.
"Yeah, yeah, no problem." Patricia flashes her big fuchsia grin. "Hey, someone came by to see you, Malila. I went ahead and let her in, hope that's okay."
"Uh..." Really quick, in your head, you go through the list of people who might stop by, people you owe money to, people you offered a job to, maybe...
"Oh, she's in the bathroom." Patricia points with her mouth the way that Native girls do, the way you do sometimes when you're not consciously trying to seem different from them.
As if on cue, the bathroom door swings open with that awful creaking noise, and you turn and look. At first all you see is a woman in a brown leather jacket, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, big dream catcher earrings dangling to her shoulders and you think Who's she?
and then it hits you and your jaw kind of drops.
"Hey, 'Lila," she says, "I think your toilet's clogged."
You just shake your head and say, "Dee!"
I feel a bit...eeeevil for making that the end. But I will probably write more in this story. <3 Malila.