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 theminna.com.  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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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 Darrell 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 Darrell 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

The Daily Grind, Part I

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 one.  

“We have two newbies.  Number two is one hot piece of ass.”  Ralph ignored Bill Benson, that fat fuck, who was leering over him as he dropped the paperwork on Ralph’s desk.  “Seriously, man.  She’s got tits out to here.”  Bill held his hand a foot away from his chest and continued to snigger to himself.  “The only problem is, she knows she’s hot shit.  I hate girls like that.”  Ralph knew he shouldn’t rise to the bait, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Shut up, Benson.  I’m sick of your crap.  If you have nothing else for me, get out of my office.”

“Chill, Stiller.  What the fuck is wrong with you?  What guy doesn’t like fresh pussy?  If you weren’t married, I’d swear you were a limp-wrister.”  As Bill talked, his eyes issued a challenge to Ralph.

“Don’t make me have to write you up, Benson.  It’ll be your second write-up this month, and you know what that means.”  Ralph stared hard at Bill, showing the latter who was alpha.  After several seconds of silence, Bill stomped out of Ralph’s office, allowing Ralph to slump in his chair.  He sighed, then picked up the papers Bill had dropped off and read them thoroughly before doing his rounds.  Per usual, he started with the new inmates.  The first was Deborah Strauss, thirty-nine years old.  A mother of five, her husband had just died in the Iran war.  Ralph’s shoulders slumped; he hated these cases most of all.

“Get me the fuck out of here.”  Deborah wasted no time laying into Ralph as soon as he stepped into her cell.  “This is some serious bullshit, and you know it.”  Ralph swallowed hard at Deborah’s blackened eyes because he knew that meant she had not gone quietly with the Brothers who had arrested her.  It was against the law to hit a pregnant woman – unless it was a three-striker and she was resisting arrest.  Ralph put aside his personal repugnance and began his spiel.

“Good morning, Deborah.  I am Ralph Still—.”

“That’s Mrs. Strauss to you, asshole.  And I don’t give a good goddamn who you are.”  Deborah’s eyes were burning with hatred, and Ralph was thankful she was tied down.
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Do Not Go Gentle, Part I

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 one.

“Ohhhhhhh….”  Maddie shook her head slowly from side to side as she awoke, her temples throbbing with every motion.  “What happened?”  She didn’t know if she asked the question out loud or in her head – either way, she didn’t receive an answer.

Her mind was fuzzy, but she remembered…blood.  So much blood, and it had been everywhere.  Why the fuck hadn’t anyone told her how much blood there would be?  She hated the sight of blood, especially her own, and yet, she had been desperate enough to make her blood stream everywhere.  She tried to move and groaned as the soreness between her legs reminded her why she was so fuzzed out in the first place.

She remembered when she found out she was pregnant – she was as regular as the sun, so when she had been a week late, she knew. Oh, sure, some of her friends said it was because of the stress – only face to face and in whispered tones.  You had to be so careful of what you said these days, and you definitely didn’t want to put anything risky in writing – but Maddie had known.  She  couldn’t take a test because they had been banned, of course, but she could feel the alien being taking seed in her body as surely as if the little line had turned pink.

Maddie frowned.  Was the line pink?  Was it purple?  She didn’t know for sure because hadn’t actually ever seen a pregnancy test – they had been outlawed when she was not seven or eight – but she had heard older women, friends of her mother, talk about sex when they didn’t know she was around.  Even as a little girl, Maddie had been able to make herself invisible to the adults around her – a useful talent to have when she wanted to find out how life was in the old days.  She couldn’t remember how many times she’d sat right outside the living entrance when Mrs. Wong had her friends over, and they would talk about how wonderful life had been before the Abortion Abolition Act of 2020.
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