Trip On This: Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Nicotine helps me think!I couldn’t stand listening to that pussy one second longer blathering about how much he regretted hurting the girl, that he really thought he’d loved her. If he knew how many times I’ve heard that self-serving shit from men who need to rationalize screwing around on their wives, he’d shut his mouth before uttering one more word. It was all I could do not to punch him in the mouth when he bleated for perhaps the twentieth time that it wasn’t sordid, Ms. Wire, oh, no, it was true love. I make them call me Ms. Wire because that way, I’m not covered in their filth. It’s enough to make me swear off men the way these idiots act like tomcats in heat. I’m sure this girl was sooo different—that’s why he’s sending me to break into her house to retrieve something of value which might link him to her. Besides, if she was sooo different, he wouldn’t have dumped her, now would he? I had had half a mind to turn him down cold until he mentioned how much he was willing to pay. Twenty-thousand, flat. A cool ten-thou resides in the back pocket of my jeans in the form of a check, and the other ten thou will be mine after I deliver the goods. That’s ten months of rent money—which is nothing to sneeze at.

After leaving his office, I return to my studio in the Mission, after detouring at my bank, of course. I don’t even bother to think about the case until that check clears. Why waste the brain power if I don’t have to? This time, however, the check clears right away. Funny, what money can buy you. I forgot to mention there’s a five-thousand dollar bonus if I finish the job in three days. ‘I really need to ease my mind, Ms. Wire,’ he had said, earnestly pushing his glasses up his nose. I can’t imagine fucking a wet noodle like him, but to each her own. If someone was buying me diamond rings and shit, maybe I’d be willing to think of my country and spread my legs, too. Hell, I did it often enough in the old days. I light up an unfiltered and inhale deeply. I quit smoking two years ago, but allow myself the pleasure when I’m figuring out a job. I have a firm rule that once I’m on the job, I can’t drink until I finish, and I’m an ornery bitch if I don’t give in to one of my vices. Since my other fave is heroin, I figure smoking is the least harmful to my profession.

I’m not an ordinary thief, mind you, and I hate being called that. I don’t break into houses for the hell of it and bust shit up. I don’t carry a piece, and I don’t kill anybody. Killing is for losers—I saw enough of that while living on the streets. In fact, it was after I witnessed someone getting killed for a couple bucks that I began to rethink my lifestyle. As fate would have it, a hooker in the Tenderloin asked me to help her retrieve something from her pimp, and when I was able to do it successfully, she recommended me to a friend. Thus, a career was born, and I’ve been thanking Cocoa every since. She got sliced and diced a year back, and they still haven’t found the son-of-a-bitch who did her. It’s some john, of course, but no cop gives a good goddamn about some Tenderloin whore. It’s just me and the girls who mourn her, and that asshole pimp of hers, Johnny Dee, except his grief is only for the loss of a paycheck.
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Trip On This: Chapter One

Chapter One

Getting funky in The Mission!

“Ms. Trip, uh, Trip Wire?”  The man holds his hand out, an uncertain smile edging his lips.  It wavers even further when the slim, Asian woman stares hard at him but doesn’t take the proffered hand.  “Um, I’m Fenwick Harrington.  You may call me Fenwick.”  He leaves his hand hanging for a beat longer before letting it fall limply to his side.  He is a thin man though quite tall, and his clothes look as if he bought them off the bargain rack at Target.  His dead-white skin, badly-cut brown hair, and the nervous tic in his left eye do nothing to inspire confidence.  Only the Rolex on his left wrist hints at the wealth he is rumored to have.  He’s one of those nouveau riche who’d rather look like a street bum than flaunt his wealth.

“Won’t you, uh, please, sit down?”  Even though they are meeting at his office, he feels at a disadvantage.  Since his business with her is delicate as it always is, he thought it would put him one-up to make her meet him at his office, but that is not the case.  The Asian woman stares at him for a minute longer, her lithe body showing the benefits of religiously working out with her sculpted muscles on proud display beneath a black tank top and black jeans.  Her long black hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, and there isn’t a trace of makeup on her round face.

“Ms. Wire, please.”  He ushers to the seat opposite his desk.  He can’t sit until she does—it’s now a matter of honor.  She glances around the office with the slightest sneer on her rather-full lips, then focuses on him, narrowing her eyes.  She has not spoken to him in the five minutes she’s been in his office, and he’s already sweating.  His eyes slide away from hers, unable to engage in this duel of wills.  Satisfied, she sits down, crossing her legs.  She is wearing black boots, of course—it’s only fitting.  She wears no jewelry except for a red thread around her neck with a gold pendant on it.  It has some kind of Asian character on it, but Fenwick Harrington has no idea what it represents.  One look into those flat eyes of hers, and he knows he’ll never ask.  Expelling a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, Fenwick Harrington sits as well.

“Well, Ms. Wire,” he says, trying out a smile on her.  Her face might as well be carved from granite for all the emotions she is showing.  “I’m sure you’re wondering—”

“How did you get my name?”  The voice is husky and deep, without a hint of accent.  There is a smokiness that sounds whiskey-induced.  The woman implacably watches Fenwick, following his every movement with her eyes.  Otherwise, she is completely still—something which unnerves Fenwick.
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Trip On This: Prologue

Ed. Note: I’m working on the announcement I mentioned in the previous post, and I’m still not ready to share exactly what I’m planning. However, it will involve a murder mystery of some kind, so to that end, I’ve decided to share an old mystery novel I wrote with you. Chapter by chapter, right here in this very space. I’m updating this old novel to make it more relevant, but I’m finding that it’s mostly fine as is. So, without further ado, here’s the prologue. 


My name is Trip, Trip Wire. Don’t say it because I’ve heard it three-thousand seven hundred and forty-two times before. Forty-three if you count the idiot who said it twice, but he didn’t have much else to say after I popped him one in his fat gut. My real name is Delilah as my adoptive parents who never went to college wanted to give this orphaned girl from China a ‘classy’ name. They scoured the Bible until they found a name they liked. Delilah, if you remember, is the broad who cut off Samson’s hair which was his strength. I don’t blame her at all as he was an idiot for letting her get that close to his hair, but men are dogs for a bit of pussy. 

If you happen to meet me, you may call me Del, though I prefer Trip, but don’t call me Live or Wired, not if you want to keep your testicles intact. Ms. Wire is fine, as well. Don’t stare at my tits, my ass, or talk to me as if I’m five years old. Don’t tell me how much you love Asian women or how Lucy Liu is so hot if you want to be able to walk away from me. What, me angry? So my therapist—mandated by the courts when I first was returned home after running away—told me before I stomped out of her office and never returned. I have every right to be angry growing up the only yellow face in Bumfuck, Iowa among the corn and the hicks who thought making the trip to Madison, Wisconsin was a big fucking deal. It wasn’t until I hightailed it to San Francisco on my sixteenth birthday that I realized I didn’t have to live in mediocrity or among the pale faces. Each time my parents came to fetch me home, I just ran away again until they finally gave up and let me be. I was seventeen.

Out here in San Francisco, I can breathe. I can walk on the streets and not be identified as the other—I am spared the second glance that always followed me around Bumfuck, Iowa. There, conversations would stop when I entered a place and whispers of ‘there goes that Wire child’ could distinctly be heard. Implied in their gossip was, ‘What was those Wires thinking of?’ The inevitable clucking of the tongue and shaking of the head accompanied each pronouncement. What my parents were fucking thinking of was they wanted a baby and couldn’t get afford a healthy white one from this country, so they scraped together the money to buy me from an orphanage in China where a girl’s life wasn’t worth the price of a chicken. All I know about my birth parents is that she was a whore and he was a Chinese American tourist who wanted to experience night life in China before returning to his real world.
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Big Announcement Coming Soon

extra, extra, read all about it!Hello, bitchez. I’ve neglected you for far too long, haven’t I? It’s been a year and a half since I’ve written anything here, and while so much has changed in that time, simultaneously, things remain strangely the same.

All that is in the past, however, and I’m ready to walk on by that mess. I have new goals, some I’m willing to share and some I’m not. The main one is that I want to be self-supportive with this writing thing, be it fiction, blog posts, or articles on how to keep your man satisfied in bed. I’ve been writing all my damned life, and now it’s time it started paying the bills.

To that end, I’m exploring the many online publishing options that have sprouted up in the past few years, ranging from crowdfunding to freelance writing to writing bad fanfic. Hey, me and my boys gotta eat!

Indiegogo? Patreon? CreateSpace? Kickstarter? So many options, and not all of them are mutually-exclusive. Currently, I’m deciding what I want to do with my life and what vehicle is the best to get me there. I know I’ve been sadly amiss in keeping up with this blog and my personal blog, The World According to MEH, but I plan to rectify both in the very near future.

Keep your eyes on this space for exciting news in the very near future.

The Daily Grind, Part II

This is another story set in my dystopian world that has banned abortion and contraceptives. I got the idea from my good friend and co-blogger at Angry Black Lady Chronicles, Ian Boudreau, who wondered what it would be like to be someone who enforces the laws in such a world, so this story is dedicated to him.  

Once again, I have broken it into two posts because I’m wordy as fuck. This is part two. Read part one here

“Ralph, honey, dinner’s ready.”  Sarah poked her head into Ralph’s home office and flashed him a nervous smile.  “Come eat while it’s hot.”

“I’ll be there in a minute, Sar.”  Ralph smiled fondly at his wife.  “I’m just finishing up the last of my paperwork.”  Sarah slipped out of the room and quietly shut the door.  Ralph returned to the papers in front of him and frowned.  He scribbled his signature three times in succession before stuffing the papers into his briefcase and snapping it shut.  He pushed his briefcase to the very edge of his desk and glared at it in distaste.  He closed his eyes for a minute before going into the dining room.

“Pass the salt, please.”  Ralph handed the shaker to Sarah so she could pass it to Leah, third of their five children.  The family ate in relative silence for several minutes, focusing on the stew and potatoes.  Sarah was watching the others eat more than she was eating herself, and when she saw Junior reach the end of his bowl, she poured half of her stew into his empty bowl.

“Ma, I’m fine,” Junior said automatically, though he began eating his extra serving even before Sarah was done pouring.  He was the starting quarterback for the Jericho Horns, and he never felt like he had enough to eat.  He didn’t complain about it, of course, because he knew that his parents did the best they could.  Still, there wasn’t a night in which he didn’t go to bed with a twinge in his gut.

“You’re a growing boy,” Sarah said firmly, her cornflower blue eyes flashing indignantly.  “You need it more than I do.”  She scraped out the last bit of beef from her bowl into Junior’s and placed the last piece of bread onto his plate as well.  The other four children studiously ate the food on their own plates and didn’t seem to notice the interplay between mother and oldest brother.
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Do Not Go Gentle, Part II

Editor’s Note: This is a story set in my dystopian world that has banned abortion and contraception. It’s a really long story, so I broke it into two parts.  This is part two. Read part one here.

Maddie turned her face away from Mrs. Frazier and stared at the wall. Maddie wasn’t really looking at anything, but she couldn’t bear looking at that bitch for one second more.  How dare Mrs. Frazier tell Maddie what the fuck was for her own good?  Maddie was a grown-ass woman who could make her own decisions.  Maddie felt the being kick in her womb, and she fought to keep down the rising panic.  She didn’t want this thing inside her, damn it, and it pissed her the fuck off that she couldn’t get rid of it. She remembered an ex-friend of hers admonishing her for complaining, saying it was her duty as a woman to have children and that said children were gifts from God.  Maddie had stared at Sally, her friend, as if the latter had spoken in tongues.  Never before had Sally espoused such beliefs, and Maddie couldn’t believe she had the fucking nerve to say it to her face.  Maddie had cut off the friendship with no remorse, refusing to accept any calls from Sally after that.

That ill-fated decision had started Maddie’s downfall.  Not two weeks after Maddie had cut off all ties with Sally did she get hauled into the nearest cop shop for thought interrogation.  She had been kept for hours and was asked the same questions over and over again.  Was she pregnant?  Why wasn’t she happy about being pregnant?  How did her husband feel about her being pregnant?  What did she plan to do about it?  She had answered their questions as honestly as she could – only lying about how her Darryl felt about her being pregnant.  She told them that he was ecstatic about becoming a father and that he already had names picked out.  She made a mental note to make sure Darryl knew this so he could answer similarly when he was questioned, if he was questioned at all.  The cops rarely bothered to interrogate the husband in a case like this – they just assumed that the husband wanted the kid and it was the bitch wife who was trying to get rid of it.

The cops hadn’t hit her because it was law that no pregnant woman could be struck while in captivity, but they did everything else they could to make the experience as uncomfortable as possible.  They did the good cop/bad cop thing, turned the heat up until Maddie was sweating profusely – she considered telling them that intense heat was bad for the baby, but she didn’t want to push her luck – and refused to give her anything to drink when she asked.  She didn’t bother demanding an attorney because that right had been taken away in 2021, and she knew that asking would only make her more suspect in their eyes.
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Taking Out the Trash

Editor’s Note: I wrote this after spending countless hours pouring over the Sandusky case. It was cathartic.

Tad Collins cut his London broil, rare, into small pieces as he studiously ignored the reporters clustered around him. Any time one of them crossed an invisible line, the bodyguards surrounding Tad would make it clear that said reporter had better back off – or else. As Tad ate his steak, his cell phone rang suddenly. He pulled it out of his pocket, frowning as he noted the number.

“Stay here,” he ordered his bodyguards in a quiet, forceful voice. “Make sure no one follows me.” Without waiting for an answer, he stood up from the table and exited the restaurant. He had hired an excellent bodyguard corps, and not one reporter dared to follow him. The second Tad was out of view, his entire manner changed from a confident swagger to subtle supplication. His cell was still ringing, and finally answered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Robbie, I told you that you can’t call me now. It’s too dangerous.” He couldn’t hide the longing in his voice, no matter how he strove to keep his tone even. He was about to add something when he felt a pain in his neck, and then – nothing.
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Chasing Red

Editor’s Note: This is one of my favorite short stories I’ve ever written.

There was a bite to the air, as there often was late at night. The area was desolate, as if mourning the gloomy weather. The waves lapping against the shore were the only sound to be heard, other than an occasional rumble in the distance. There were faint streaks of cerise cutting through the swaths of blackness in the night sky, but they were nearly impossible to spot with the naked eye. The moon glimmered from behind a small cluster of clouds, affording minimal light to anyone intrepid enough to venture out. The beach was deserted, properly so, as it would be unwise for anyone to stumble upon the sands in the dead of night.

There was one brave soul, looking impossibly small as she stood on the cliff high above the ocean. Even though the night was chilly, she was wearing only a thin carnelian dress that could more rightfully be labeled a slip. She didn’t seem to be affected by the cold as she twirled in the dark, her hands extended exultantly to the sky. Her burgundy-painted lips stretched into a generous smile as she soaked up the frigid atmosphere. There was condensation in the air—signaling an imminent rainfall. She squared her shoulder and straightened her spine as she took her first step forward.


San Francisco. She looked around her tiny crackerjack box studio in Bernal Heights. She thought her studio in Minneapolis had been small; it was palatial compared to this prison cell. She could stretch out her arms and touch the wall on either side of her. Slight exaggeration, but not much of one—and the place cost her twice what her studio in Minneapolis had. The walls were an ugly salmon pink, and the paint was crumbling in the corners. She hated pink. She hated crumbling paint. She hated corners. She hated hills. She flopped down on the futon and stared at the stucco ceiling instead so she wouldn’t have to deal with the glaring defects of her new home.

The next few weeks passed in a haze. No job, no school, no friends, no life, no prospects. Each day bled into the next. She’d wake up and lie on her futon, staring at the ceiling for hours. Many minutes would pass before she’d remember to blink. By then, her eyes would be dried out, and shutting them would literally hurt. The stucco swirled before her eyes as she stared and stared. Like a Dali painting, shapes began to emerge when she softened her gaze but didn’t actually close her eyes. Voluptuous nude female figures recumbent, standing erect, doubled over, flirting, making love with each other. When she’d found the last hidden figure for the day, only then would she drag herself out of bed and throw herself into the shower in order to eat up some of the interminable time that suffocated her days. Sure, she could have done something useful like paint the walls a different color – a bright coral would have been nice – but that would have taken energy she just couldn’t spare.
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Death Becomes Her

Editor’s Note:  This is a story I wrote before I started writing a series of short stories set in a dystopian world that has made abortion and contraception illegal.  It fits the theme, though, so I’m retconning it to fit in the world.

“Am I going to be all right?”  The frail, big-eyed teenager asked Mahlea, her thin frame shivering out of either fear or fever.  There was a puddle of blood spreading on the bed between her legs, but the teenager didn’t seem to notice.

“Of course, you are, baby,” Mahlea said with a smile as she held back her tears.  She shook her thick black hair to hide her face as she patted the girl’s translucent hand; Mahlea had always been a terrible liar.  “You’re going to be just fine.” Continue Reading

Welcome to MY World

Hey, ‘sup, bitchez?  My name is Minna Hong, and this is my fiction blog.  It’s an emerging, living entity, so it’ll change, grow, and occasionally spit up along the way.  Just FYI, I swear.  A lot.  So if that’s problematic, you may want to skip this blog entirely.

::looks around::

It’s kind of strange.  For years, this has been the home of my personal blog, which has now been moved to  I ranted and I railed about whatever popped in my mind.  Then, I closed the curtains on my blog and moved on to other adventures.  My fiction site was one reason I closed down my blog, and now, roughly a year later*, I am ready to make magic happen.

Since it’s November, that means NaNoWriMo.  I’ve already met the goal – 56,142 and counting – which isn’t surprising for me.  If you’ve ever read anything I’ve written, you know I have no trouble spewing a bunch of words at a time.  In the past couple years, I’ve set my own goals for NaNoWriMo, and this year, I have three.  One is to get this website up and running – as defined by me.  The second is to write a mystery novel, and I’m about a third down with that.
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