big boob cowgirl vol. 19

just two girls in their MID 20s!!!!!!

Short Story: False Light, pt 2 of many by Hannah

My father taught me how to use a knife by making a sundial out of soapstone, and many years it served me. Its primary function was to help me keep track of how long he and Abram went hunting, however I also found it useful for tracking seasons, and how the sunlit hours changed with them.

Watching my timepiece now, my parents passed after seven sunless days, and Abram after ten. My muscles were too starved and the ground too frozen to bury them, so I brought them outside, one by one, and rested them in the snow for burial in the spring. They were completely buried in snow within two hours.

The next morning, I woke to my shoulder being shaken hard. It was Katarzyna. Crying, she brought me to the front door, which was open and blowing snow gently inside. Snowflakes kissed our toes as I looked where she pointed.

There were footsteps–large and fresh, made from a kind of shoe I had never seen before–that led right up to the front door. I stared at them for quite some time, noticing that there were only footsteps going in, not away. The pile of snow where our parents and brother lay was undisturbed.

Finally, I closed the door and brought Kasia to the stove. Using the remnants of our fire from the night before and the last of our herbs and clean water, I made us hot and bitter tea. She began to calm, and I looked over our bare pantry.

“Eliaw, I’m scared,” Kasia said, sniffling. I came to stand in front of her, relishing the dim warmth from the fire.

“Me too,” I said.

An hour later, we were trudging through the snow. The drifts were as high as my head in some places and the snow continued driving down, so Katarzyna trotted behind me. I had fastened her shoes tight, with two pairs of my wool socks and a wrapping of beaver fur for good measure. After much adjusting, I managed to wrap our grandfather’s coyote coat around her and fasten it on her head, and through my grim mood I still found myself smiling as she waddled behind me.

Abram’s racoon coat was excellently crafted, and he had varnished it with wax so as to slick off snow and rain. He had also left a tail intact on the seat of the jacket, and Kasia held on diligently as instructed so I could make sure I didn’t lose her. Our footsteps, muted by the piles of snow, still seemed to squeak loudly as we pushed our way through the village. Even my labored breathing and the crack of snow as I made a path through it with my body seemed to disturb the absolute silence.

As we reached the edge of our known world, we came upon Zowia Budney’s home. It stood unassuming, much like it always had, in a semi-circle of other homes that outlined the edge of the village. Upon seeing it, I was broken from my trance and froze suddenly in my tracks. Kasia bumped into me, at first protesting and then seeing it.

Not only was the snow cleared in a short path leading to the house, neatly, as if done with a shovel, but there was a light on inside, and the chimney puffed steadily with smoke.

Kasia began walking towards it, and so did I. I felt the heat radiating from the house, and blood began to prickle back into my fingers and nose.

“I smell bread!” my sister shrieked excitedly, and I realized she was right. The yeasty smell was fragrant, and we approached.

We entered hesitantly, and saw the house was empty. The stove burned warmly, and the oil lamps were all lit and filled the house with a gentle glow. On the large wood table in the center of the room, a hearty loaf of seeded bread sat on a clean cloth. Next to it were two bowls of meat stew, and the steam rising from the soup beckoned to us.

Without thinking, Kasia and I began ravenously eating. The stew was made with a rich broth that filled us quickly, and as soon as we finished eating, we stripped our furs and fell into a deep sleep in front of the stove fire. I slept deeply that night, and Katarzyna and I didn’t wake up until the next afternoon. Upon waking, there was another meal waiting for us on the table, and it was equally filling and equally anonymous in origin.

The house remained empty save for the two of us for the next five days, and each day we woke to a new meal waiting for us. The fire remained steady and warm, and the oil lamps remained lit. Katarzyna revealed she had brought our wooden beads despite my insistence that we couldn’t bring any non-essentials, and we began to play our old games. They didn’t satisfy me the way I had hoped–it was too quiet and there was too much snow–but it helped to pass the time between meals.

On the morning of our seventh day at Zowia Budney’s home, I woke to a jarring darkness. The kitchen window had been opened, and the driving snow had blown out the lamps and the stove. Rising to my feet in a sleepy stumble, I noticed Katarzyna was gone, and there was no meal waiting for us on the table.

A familiar icy chill ran through me, and after searching the small house thoroughly, I knew my sister was gone. Looking outside the front door, the snow was pristine and white, disturbed only in the path leading to the house, which had been cleared every day as mysteriously as the food was prepared and the stove fires were stoked.

Doned in my furs with her coat in hand, I walked around the back of the house, and that was where I found her tiny footprints, fading rapidly in the falling snow. I followed.

‎✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡𖧧・ 𓂃˖₊⊹・‎✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡𖧧・ 𓂃˖₊⊹・‎✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡𖧧・ 𓂃˖₊⊹・

my crying in h mart review by ashlon

No I didn’t like it, and yes I didn't finish it. Thank you Michelle Zauner for writing this absolutely traumatizing book, recounting the final days of your mother’s life. I hope, if nothing else, you felt some type of closure after you wrote this book. I hope this book was cathartic for you. I thought if I read this book it would make my future not seem so bleak. It did nothing of the sort. It actually made me so angry I stopped reading.

I want to make it clear that I think Zauner is a very talented writer. She didn’t write this book so I would feel better. She made everyone who read it feel her pain, and see what she had to go through. And it makes this a phenomenal book, but I am a very emotional reader. It was awful.

I started planning a funeral in my head. Wondering who would show up. How I would do my sister's hair. What I would wear. If I should plan what I was going to wear, or if that would be vain of me. Then I thought about how my step mom showed me the song You’re So Vain by Carly Simon. I thought about all the music she has shown me. I thought about the breakfast she would make me and friends after a sleepover. Those same friends I don’t speak to anymore. I hope they show up to the funeral. Maybe I don’t.

“It felt like the world had divided into two different types of people, those who had felt pain and those who had yet to.”

I had a close friend at the time tell me I shouldn’t be upset because 15 years is a long time, and I shouldn’t worry about it now. I wanted to ask her if 15 years with her mother felt like enough time. But I didn’t say anything. I’m sure she doesn’t even remember saying it, but I think about it all the time. I wonder if she’ll come to the funeral, maybe it’s too far away for her to think about.

I remember telling my mom, when I was really young, how I would be equally upset when both of them die. I was trying to express my love for both of them in the most extreme way possible, which was death to me. I remember feeling guilty for saying it. I feel guilty now for saying it.

When I said it I imagined I would be an old person when it happened. It would be at an age that didn’t have a number, just old. I would be old enough to be ok. I would be done growing. I would have learned everything. But now I know I will never be old enough for it to be ok. I think I will let my sister do her own hair. Unless she asks.